


The Fledgling Diaries

by DistantStorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Family, Fluff, Lore Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:43:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: Fledgling(noun): A young bird just learning to fly, still under the care of adults.A series of stories about Suraya Hawthorne and the men who took her in. Most will be connected.





	1. the right fit

A young Marc and Devrim want a child of their own. Marc especially wants a little one to spoil rotten, and cannot wait to bring home a little bundle of joy from one of the city’s orphanages. Devrim is far more reserved. He urges caution and restraint, meticulously combing through details and reading the body language of staff and each tot they encounter. Marc doesn’t get frustrated by Devrim’s indifference to each child they’re introduced to, he knows his husband just wants to find the perfect fit for their family. They answer calls day and night, whenever they are able, to come meet new intakes.

Then, one day, they get a call for a newborn boy. They’re a rarity. Marc is practically bouncing with excitement. He tells Devrim, “We can name him Devrim Kay IX!” When Devrim smiles at that, Marc thinks, ‘This is it! This is the one!’

But like everything else, it never goes the way he thinks it will. The little boy is soft and perfect, with bright blue eyes and freckles, downy brown hair. He could pass as either of their child, not that it matters, though it might help as he got older. He turns to Devrim to see if he’d like to hold the infant and his heart both soars and sinks, all at once.

Devrim’s eyes are on a little girl, all alone in the courtyard. Her clothes are dirty and her hair is tangled and messy. She is sitting cross legged on the ground, holding perfectly still, arms outstretched and hands cupped. She does not move despite the other children whooping and hollering in the distance. Her gaze is focused and intent on the pigeons that eye her back warily. One brave soul hops forward slowly and tentatively pecks at what must be seed in her hands.

Marc knows his husband has made his choice when he returns the yawning infant back to one of the workers and returns to find him still watching her from afar, one fist braced on the windowpane. She’s got five of them eating from her palm now. They don’t scatter when she lets the rest of the seed drop from her hands or stands and empties her pockets of the rest of what she’s squirreled away. Marc cringes when she dusts off her hands on her patchwork clothes, but then she looks up, to the window they stand in front of. Her eyes find Devrim’s, and her head tilts to the side. Serious, alert, inquisitive eyes stare back. She shrugs eventually and returns to looking at the birds, as if determining he’s not a threat.

“Why don’t we go say hello?” Marc asks him.

Devrim startles. Nothing ever startles him. “She isn’t-”

_…In the age group they’d considered? The gender they wanted? Will never pass as a blood relation?_

“It doesn’t matter, love. It never really did.” He links his arm through his spouse’s and guides him down to the small open air courtyard.

Her name is Suraya Hawthorne. Devrim gets down on one knee to introduce himself and Marc. When she looks up to him, Marc smiles his most charming smile and says, “We would like to take you home. Would you like that?”

Devrim flinches, and Suraya stares between the two of them in confusion.

“Shouldn’t you guys talk this over?” She asks. It’s clear she believes they’re lying or playing a game of some sort.

Marc laughs. “Ah,” He puts a hand on Devrim’s shoulder. “That’s the thing. My husband and I have come to see the new baby,” He says with a shrug. “But he seems far more smitten with you.” The tip of Devrim’s ears turn pink. Marc’s got him there.

“A baby would be easier,” The girl tells him quietly.

“We aren’t looking for easy,” Marc replies. “We’re looking for  _right_.”

“Marc,” He knows that rambling tone. Devrim’s nervous. “Darling,” he continues, “Perhaps we should talk about this.”

“We will. When we get home.” Marc looks to Suraya, her little lip curled and trembling, hands clenching hard on the hem of her shirt as she looks away, willing herself not to be disappointed. “All of us, together.” Her head snaps back to him when he crouches down to her level as well. “What do you say, kiddo? That work for you?”


	2. no going back

Their Suraya is quiet. She moves even quieter than Devrim does, but has learned quickly enough to make her presence known as not to frighten an unsuspecting Marc. She does not speak much, answering in short sentences and never, ever asking questions. She does not smile, and she does not ask for anything. Does not fuss or seek attention. Does her best to stay out of the way. She is trying to show them she is self sufficient.

They did not ask for self sufficient. She’s not even seven years old, for Light’s sake.

So when they are watching the evening news and Suraya sneaks away to the kitchen - they’ve noticed that they will most certainly need to buy more yogurt, she’s particularly fond of blueberry - they aren’t the wiser. But then, there’s a crash of a chair tipping, the smash of a glass meeting the tiled floor, and the thud of a tiny body to round it all out.

Both men jump. Both yell her name - concerned, worried out of their minds. She does not answer. They hear the sound of glass crunching against the tile before they see her.

“Stop!” Devrim orders, and her eyes flash to him, pupils like pin pricks, her entire body flushed and shaking in terror. The remnants of the broken glass - most of it anyway - are scooped up into her palms, rivulets of blood running in spidery lines down her fingers, a few snaking down her tiny arms. She looks away, but other than her trembling, does not move a muscle. “What were you doing?” He barks, in that tone that Marc knows to be unbridled worry, but Suraya thinks means he’s furious.

“Dev.” Marc puts a hand on his husband’s shoulder. “Go get a broom. You’re frightening her.”

It’s like all of time stands still as realization dawns on him. Devrim takes a step forward at about the same time the first gasp of a sob shakes the little girl like an earthquake. “Suraya-”

She shakes her head. Curls in on herself, even.

“Broom,” Marc insists, putting his hand on the side of Dev’s face, thumb rubbing his cheek gently. Devrim doesn’t have the benefit of working with children in the Militia. Marc is far more adept at these delicate situations. “Take a minute to compose yourself.”

“Okay.” It’s barely a whisper, and Devrim turns his face into his love’s palm, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he’s gone, Marc sits down, a safe distance away. “Did you hurt yourself?” He asks, “Beside your hands?”

“I’m fine,” The girl huffs defensively, rising to her feet. She winces, and Marc watches her carefully limp to the garbage and drop the glass into the bin. She lifts up her foot, inspecting it, before pulling out a sliver of glass from her heel and depositing it as well. Marc winces. “I’ll clean it up,” She says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a glass. We have plenty.” Marc shrugs, until she reaches down to pick up the rest. “Do not pick up the broken glass with your fingers.”

“But… I broke it.”

“You did,” Marc agrees. She moves to pick up the chair that’s overturned on the floor and Marc shakes his head.

She looks at him, confused. “I gotta clean it up before you take me back. I told you the baby woulda been easier.”

There it was. Marc had suspected this might be the issue, but didn’t even know where to start. The self sufficiency wasn’t her personality, not totally. She was trying to prove her worth. He rises to his feet and carefully steps around the remaining shards. “Up we go,” He says as he lifts her.  Without acknowledging her flinch - baby steps, he thinks to himself - he sets her on the counter next to the sink.

He washes his hands first before pulling out a soft flannel from under the sink. She watches him warily, as he wets it with warm water and begins to dab gently on her hands.

There’s a gentle knock on the kitchen doorway. Suraya thinks it’s strange to knock at the entrance to a room with no door, but doesn’t dare comment, doesn’t dare look for fear of drawing Devrim’s ire.

“Devrim wasn’t yelling at you,” Marc murmurs gently as he motions for the other man to come into the kitchen. “We heard the crash and worried that you had hurt yourself.”

She keeps her eyes focused on her hands and her head down as Devrim sweeps up the mess and puts the chair to rights. Her hands sting, but Marc has removed the few pieces of glass that lingered and washed her up.

It’s all over far too quickly, and before she knows it, hot, angry tears are leaking out of the corner of her eyes. She holds herself as still as she can, but they still notice that she’s crying.

“So,” Marc says, lifting Suraya off the counter and depositing her on her feet. She runs away, the second her toes touch solid ground. He can’t help but sigh as he looks to his husband. “It seems we’re not as good at this as we thought.”

Devrim rubs the back of his head, sighs as well. “Apparently not.”

“She thinks we’re going to give her back.”

There’s a gasp, a small, incredulous sound from somewhere in Devrim’s throat. “She cannot be serious.”

“She thinks we’re going to exchange her for the baby, I think.” Mark admits. “I never should have told her that we came for him in the first place. I’m an idiot.”

“At least she’s not afraid of you,” Devrim reminds, as if saying that his transgression is far worse.

“She’s afraid of everything,” Marc presses. “She’s skittish. An orphaned child. Horrible things happened to her, to make her the way she is. Things we can’t undo, but will work to put behind her.”

“She wasn’t nearly this frightened of her own shadow at the orphanage,” Devrim insists, dropping into one of the chairs at the table. So why now?”

“Maybe she thinks she has something to lose now,” Marc muses aloud.

“We’re never giving her up,” Devrim declares, fiercely. His husband rolls his eyes. It was never even a consideration. “Not even if she asks us to.”

“I agree, my love.” Marc puts his hand over his Devrim’s clenched fist. “But I think she needs you to tell her that.”

-/

Devrim steels himself for the conversation. He is not great at discussing his feelings or sharing them like Marc is. Marc is his better half in most ways, but especially in empathy and charisma. Dev has come a long way, but he knows that she would understand this far easier coming from Marc than she will with him.

When he steps into the doorway to her room, he’s taken aback. The little bag the orphanage had sent her home with is packed with the spare set of clothes she’d had when she left. She’s changed out of what they’ve bought her and put her dirty clothes neatly into the hamper. The bed is made up, and the stuffed bird they’d picked out for her sits on her lap, clutched tightly between little hands.

“Is it time to go?” She asks him without looking. She’s staring at the stuffed animal, looking desolate and miserable. “I was just saying goodbye.”

Nothing in his life, in all his years, could have prepare him for this moment. Her sadness is radiating off of her in waves, tears streaking down her face in silent resignation. He shakes his head, but the words won’t come. His eyes are burning, head is spinning, and his heart feels like it’s going to be crushed into dust or leap out of his chest.

Devrim Kay has cried only twice before. The first was when his father died. He was fourteen years old, and his mother had lent him her handkerchief. She had told him that real men cry to mark the important moments in their lives. The second was when he’d said his vows, five years ago last June.

But now, as Suraya stares back at him, teary-eyed, lips trembling, he cannot help it. The floodgates open and he’s on his knees before her, folding her into an embrace that catches them both off guard.

“My dear Suraya,” He says, the palm of his hand rising up to cradle the back of her head, “You aren’t going anywhere.” He huffs a bit, fights to get a hold of his emotions, but fails ridiculously.

Little hands come up to touch his cheeks, nimble fingers wiping at the dampness they find there. “You’re not taking me back?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But what if I-”

“There is nothing you could possibly say or do that would cause Marc or myself not to want you. We’ve met countless children we could have chosen to adopt. None of them were the correct fit, because none of them were you.” He draws back and looks down at her, lifting her chin with his index finger so they’re looking into each other’s eyes, sky blue to earthen brown. Such opposites and yet so very similar, bloodshot and glassy as they convey their feelings. “You have my word. You are ours. Forever.”

She throws her arms around his neck and sobs, giant gut wrenching things that make her whole body shake. She’s whispering something into his collarbone, and when he tips his head down to listen, he hears the sob-riddled litany of  _I didn’t wanna go, I don’t wanna, I swear I don’t wanna_.  He lifts her up with strong arms - though there’s nothing to her, really - and sits on her bed, letting her curl up against his chest and let it all out.

Sometime later, Marc tiptoes into the room to find her snuggled against Dev, one little hand clinging to the stuffed bird they’d gotten her and the other clutching his shirt. She’s out like a light, cheeks puffy and flushed from all her crying.

“She just fell asleep,” Dev says, though his eyes don’t leave her face. Marc thinks he’s never loved this man more, cradling their baby girl, looking down at her with such devotion. He always knew Dev would be a natural. “I think she needed a good cry to tucker herself out.”

“I think she just needed you, darling.”


	3. family

School is mostly boring. But, they sometimes go on fun trips to places like a farm - where they learn about animals - and to a museum - which is mostly boring, but there were some pretty pictures she told Marc about and he was proud of her for knowing about color composition. Her teacher is nice enough. Doesn't ask her to read in front of the class like she does with the others when they don't pay attention.

The teacher does yell at her sometimes, but only when she doesn't do homework or give Devrim and Marc the notes she writes them once a week. She doesn't like it when her teacher says things like 'Suraya needs to focus more on history class. Please make sure you are helping her study.’ Dev and Marc sat with her every night and talked about school, what she learned, what she didn't understand. She just blanked when she saw the tests in front of her. She didn't like being put on the spot. It made her hands all clammy and her heartbeat race in her chest.

One thing about the classroom she does like, though, is when they're given art projects. It's not often - first graders are bigger and older and more concerned with serious topics like math(which she understands way better than history) - but every time she makes something and brings it home, Dev and Marc hang it up on the kitchen refrigerator and make sure to show anyone that comes by. It's… nice.

She's been living with them for a few months now. They're very good to her, always trying to make sure she's comfortable and happy. They don't make her wear pink or play with dolls - though they offered to play dolls with her if she'd wanted to - and let her take her time getting used to being around new people. So, today, her teacher is having the class draw a picture of their family and write five whole sentences about them, to present to the class later. It's long, but Suraya is good at reading and writing, too. Marc and Dev tell her that being literate is important, and they know lots of things. They help her practice her writing and make sure she uses proper grammar when she does her homework.

It's only when she's about halfway done with the picture she's drawing - her, Marc, and Devrim, at the park, where they go every Saturday morning before going out to breakfast - that the teacher comes by. She compliments Suraya's color choice for Devrim's eyes, which makes Suraya roll hers once the woman walks away but she makes sure not to let anyone see.  One of her classmates over to her table a little after that, looking to borrow a brown crayon. He frowns at Suraya's picture, even after she hands him the color he'd asked for.

“Your picture's all wrong,” The boy says. “A family has a mommy and a daddy.”

“I don't have a mom,” Suraya says, and turns her head back to her paper.

“You can't have two dads!”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Well,” Suraya says, not looking at him, “You're wrong.”

Suraya squints at the page. There's not a lot of gray in Dev's hair, but it's not all black, either. She reaches for the silver crayon around the same time the little boy snatches her work out from in front of her and runs back over to his table, with his friends.

“Look! Either her mom has a beard or she's got two dads!”

“Give it back.” Suraya marches over to them. “Now!” She demands.

“She drew two dads.” The boy continues, crumpling up her picture between his fists. “What a stupid fam-”

He doesn't get the word out, because Suraya's fist connects with his cheek and the surprise of it all sends him careening to the floor. “DON'T TALK ABOUT MY FAMILY!” She screeches as the boy holds his face and bursts into tears.

The teacher rushes over and pulls them both from the room. Suraya's entire body is shaking with rage. When the teacher tells her to apologize for hitting the boy, she refuses. They tell her that leaves them no choice: they're calling her parents.

The teacher has to physically separate the two of them when the boy smirks and sticks his tongue out at her.

-/

Marc and Devrim leave work as soon as they possibly can. There's never been a problem before. Now, they're received a call that Suraya has been suspended for a week. They can't believe it. She’s a first-grader. What could she have done to warrant such an extreme response?

Devrim is still dressed in his gray militia fatigues, he'd had drills today. Thankfully, his superiors were understanding enough to let him go. Marc, however, demanded a half-day, told his supervisor to shove it - she had an adult child, certainly she remembered when they were young - and left. Devrim had Marc's left wrist in a vice grip to prevent him from running to the office where they'd said Suraya would be waiting to see them and the principal.

She sits on a bench in the hall, in plain sight of the main office secretary just inside the doorway next to the bench. Her feet kick anxiously, not able to reach the floor from where she sits. Beside her is the pale blue backpack she lugs back and forth each day. She looks furious and anxious in equal parts.

“What is the meaning of this, Suraya?” Dev does not release Marc's wrist until he crouches in front of the bench.

Of course, at that moment, a woman walks around them and into the office. The mother is clearly distraught, saying that she's here to pick up her son, that he was attacked. Dev looks to Suraya with a raised brow and she shrugs before ducking her head.

“We would like to hear it from you,” Marc tells her, and his words have an edge to them that makes it sound less optional and more required that she share exactly how she's gotten into this situation. Her eyes widen at his tone. Devrim stands back.

“Ah. Misters Kay. We’ll bring you and Suraya into the office in just a moment,” A stout woman says, very clearly the school’s principal. Both men nod before she tends to the boy’s mother, who is demanding an explanation with a very concerned ring to her voice.

“It was an art project,” Suraya says, when their gazes both fall back on her. “He - a boy in my class told me what I drew was stupid.”

“Suraya-”

“So I punched him.”

“Suraya Hawthorne!” Devrim’s tone is non-negotiable. “That is unacceptable behavior.”

She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You will apologize to that young man, and his mother, for their trouble,” Marc adds, now understanding the situation with the other woman. “And we will not be taking you for breakfast this weekend.”

Daring a glance up at them and not liking the dual-disappointed faces they’re looking at her with, she drops her gaze down to the chipped tile floor and chooses to remain silent. She swings her legs a little more listlessly than usual. It’s a long while before the Principal emerges and calls them in.

Suraya is asked to sit between her parents, the boy and his mother on the other side of the room. The principal is looking down at something on her desk. The boy’s mother looks uncomfortable.

“I never enjoy these conversations,” The principal says. “However, on occasion, I find myself having to meet with parents when children behave poorly.” She looks to Suraya. Then to Marc and Devrim. “What your daughter did is unacceptable.”

“We agree,” Devrim says, a hard edge to his voice. He looks down at Suraya. She looks up at him in something akin to surprise and maybe a little fear. “Suraya would like to apologize for her deplorable behavior.”

“I’m sorry,” Suraya says. “I shouldn’t’a hit you,” She cranes her head around Devrim, looking over at her classmate in her best rendition of a heartfelt apology. Marc and Dev wouldn’t go for anything less than her best attempt. “Hitting is wrong.”

“No,” The boy agrees, with a haughty tone. He has the clear beginnings of a black eye. “You shouldn't have.”

Suraya’s fingers curl into fists, and Marc puts one hand over hers, shaking his head with that same disappointed look from outside, in the hallway. She exhales and grips the edge of the seat of her chair as tightly as she can.

The boy’s mother coughs, pointedly. The boy deflates. “I’m sorry I was mean to you about your picture.”

Suraya nods, but does not say another word.

The principal delegates the boy’s punishment, three days of after-school chores. Due to the violent nature of Suraya’s behavior, she will still be suspended from school for a week. The principal gestures to her desk as she speaks to Suraya. “Your teacher taped your project back together,” She says. “Would you like to-”

A dark mop of black hair shakes in the negative. Her eyes stay trained on the ground.

“What exactly did he say to her?” Marc asks. Clearly, it devastated her, whatever it was.

“Nothing,” The boy says.

“I think you should tell Suraya’s parents,” His mother says, a note of finality in her tone. “Or I will.”

“I said her family was stupid,” He whispers. Devrim and Marc look at each other, and then the principal who nods.

“You said,” Suraya grits out, finding her resolve, “That a family couldn’t have two dads.” She gestures to either side of her. “Here they are.”

“I don’t have one, but you get two?” The boy yells at her. “That’s not fair!”

“I didn’t have anyone before! Nobody wanted me!” She bellows back, and then, as if realizing what she’s just said, looks to Devrim, eyes welling up with angry, overwhelmed tears. “I wanna go home now. Please,” She begs him.

The sniper has her in a firm embrace before she really goes to pieces, and the principal nods and gestures to the door. The boy’s mother looks at Devrim, incredibly apologetic. “I’m sorry,” She says. “Your daughter, did she-”

“We’ve had her for a few months now,” Marc says. “She’s still adjusting.”

“I’ll be having a discussion with my boy on being respectful,” The mother says in reply.

Devrim gives her a curt nod. “We will discuss with Suraya how to properly handle disagreements. Without violent discourse.” He looks to the principal, rising with her in his arms. “I trust we’re finished here?”

“I- yes.” The woman rises from behind her desk and gives Marc the project, folded in half, taped together and smoothed out, but crinkled. Devrim does not speak as he steps around his husband, Suraya's arms locked around his neck, her face pressed into the collar of his fatigues. Both men knew something would eventually trigger this, they'd read enough on the subject when planning to adopt. Didn’t mean it would be less heartbreaking.

Marc picks up her little bag, slings it over his shoulder and excuses himself, unfolding the project as he does so. _This is my family_ , it says, printed at the top of the page. And beneath it, a typical child's drawing - two long-legged adults and one short child with messy black hair, feeding birds in the park. Under that, are wide, heavily lined bars, ones that are so big her rather advanced script is tucked into the bottom third of the allotted space.

_Marc and Dev are my family, it says. We go to the park and have fun. When I am sick they take care of me. I am happy they picked me. We love each other._

“Give her here,” He tells Dev, a second later, when his eyes make everything on the page blur. Dev's eyes narrow, but he complies despite Suraya's reluctance.

“Easy,” Dev says when she whines and squirms. “Marc wants a cuddle.” She releases Dev with her arms and leans right for Marc to prop her on his hip.

She isn't crying as much, but her head falls on his shoulder in a quiet, tired out haze, her face blotchy and tear-soaked, eyes out of focus. “I've got you,” He tells her. “Let's go home, yeah? I think it's a pizza and pajama night.” Her reply is a blank nod, and Marc can feel how limp she is in his arms. If she's still awake when they make it home, he'll be surprised.

“Marc.” The tone of Devrim's voice insists that his husband cannot possibly be serious. Rewarding her now, despite her distress, wasn’t good parenting.

He shrugs, using the hand not supporting her weight to flap the paper in front of the other man. “Read this.”

Devrim coughs uncomfortably after reading it the first time. “Oh, alright,” he grumbles, similarly defeated. Marc watches him reread it several more while they walk home. Suraya is snoring baby-fine snores into Marc's chest when he leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek. When he lifts his coldwater eyes up, it's into Marc's dark, intense gaze.

“I ever tell you how absolutely beautiful it is, watching you being a father?” He asks, before stealing a chaste kiss.

The laugh is quiet and warm and comes from somewhere deep in Dev's chest. “My dear Marc,” He intones, his hand sliding down Marc's back to wrap around his hip, keeping them side by side as they continue home. One cohesive unit, the three of them. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”


	4. i miss you

It was the third time this week Marc had rolled over, reaching for someone who wasn’t there, sighing into his pillow when all he felt was cool sheets and bitter loneliness. Marc was used to this. It happened only a few times a year, but rarely for this long. Usually, Devrim was gone a week or two. This time, he was informed that it would be at least eight weeks, but could be up to twelve that he would be called away. Their networks needed updating, and the Militia had to step in and do its part. Devrim had gotten off easy for years. Just so happened that this was the year he had a bit more going on than usual.

That being said, it was anticipated enough. He’d known it was coming for a month beforehand, had prepared Marc for it. They hadn’t known how to break the news to Suraya, who was just starting to come out of her shell, just starting to feel comfortable in what was now her home. Devrim agreed she deserved honesty, and when they had told her, she’d sat in her chair at the kitchen table very quietly, not saying a word. When they asked her if she understood, she nodded. When they had asked her how she felt about it, she shrugged. Made a comment that suggested it didn’t matter - and in a way, it didn’t. Devrim couldn’t get out of it, even if he wanted to. Better to be called away for something routine and monotonous than for actual combat. When the conversation was over, she continued to sit quietly, refused to eat more than a couple bites of her supper, and went to bed without complaint immediately after.

Marc knew Dev wouldn’t come to bed that night even if she’d taken it well, and wasn’t surprised to find the two of them snuggled together on the couch the following morning, her head tucked under Dev’s chin, her stuffed bird tucked into the crook of his arm, and his hands folded atop her back, blanket covering them both as they slept. He wasn’t jealous, not by any means. Suraya was just as much Marc’s child as she was Devrim’s, and though the two of them bonded quickly and very intensely, Marc had no doubts that he and Suraya had a strong connection as well.

It was that connection that had him waking up in the middle of the night, that paternal intuition alerting him to issues as naturally as breathing. He had a knack for hearing the quiet snick of her bedroom door closing at two am. It had him creeping quietly down the hallway to stand outside. There was no surprise when her sobbing tore him apart, hurting far worse than the ache Marc himself felt whenever Devrim was away. She put up a good act, Suraya did. But he knew she’d be hurting.

He quietly knocked on the door, not wanting to scare her when he edged it open. She lay on her belly, head pressed into the pillow as she cried, hugging her stuffed animal so tightly it looked like his head would burst and his beak would spit stuffing.

“Darling,” Marc coos, when she doesn’t acknowledge him, “Come here.”

She only shakes her head and tries to stop her crying. It takes Marc a second to scoop her into his arms and hold her tight.

“It’s okay to be upset,” He tells her. “I miss him too.”

Suraya shakes her head and squirms, pushing out of his grasp and against the headboard. “I want Dev,” She says.

“Me too,” He agrees. “But your Dad is doing something very important, princess. He told you why he does what he does. He protects us from all the bad things out there, remember?”

Her lip curls and she nods, but still says, “I want him to come home.”

Marc smiles sadly. “I’m sure he misses you very much.”

She looks at Marc in meek surprise. “You do?”

“Of course,” He agrees. “It’s only natural for fathers to miss their daughters when they’re away. Just like it’s natural for daughters to miss their fathers.”

Eventually, she had soothed, and the lack of sleep had caught up with her. But he could see it in her eyes, the bleak misery in her gaze the next morning. They did their best to keep busy - games, outings to the park, even going so far as to see a musical one of Marc’s coworkers said his daughter enjoyed - but none of it helped her sleep at night.

And then, there were the nightmares.

Horrible, awful dreams. Borne of anxiety and lack of sleep, she'd wake screaming - crying out, for her, was akin to the average child's scream - and unable to speak of whatever it was she'd seen that caused her to react this way. She'd be half-awake, wailing into his chest, fists clenching his nightshirt so tightly he thought her fingernails would leave holes.

One particularly brutal night, he'd come down the hall at a tear when he'd heard her yell only to find her curled into the smallest ball she could make herself on the bed, sobbing forlornly, “I want my Daddy.”

“I'm here, baby,” Marc replied, ignoring the fluttery feeling in his chest. “I'm here.”

Suraya's eyes flashed open, earth-brown glassy irises blown wide with surprise. She was crying in her sleep, he realized. His poor little girl. Her face crumpled, brows knitting together as she sat up and repeated, “I want Dev. I want my Daddy,” before dissolving into a fit.

She'd repeated it over and over, until she’d fallen asleep against her will, Marc rocking her and trying not to let her notice how much she was affecting him. He could only be so strong. Even though he’d known that Suraya would have it tough because she’d really taken a shining to Devrim, it still hurt like hell to hold her in his arms and listen to her cry for his husband. Like… like _he_ wasn’t good enough.

Marc squashed down that line of thought. He knew she loved them both. Maybe not quite the same, and to quantify a child’s love was a difficult thing, especially one as withdrawn as Suraya, but she did love him. It was why she refused to let him lay her back down and tuck her in, locking her arms around his neck and begging him to stay with her.

And Devrim, poor Devrim, hundreds of miles away from the City, doing his duty, would be absolutely utterly wrecked when he found out about this. Suraya was his pride and joy. To find out just how bad this had impacted her would break his heart. Marc sighed. They’d signed up for this, and they’d never want it any other way. Even the difficult bits.

His perseverance paid off days later, when a small hand patted his cheek in the middle of the night. “Marc,” She stage whispered, followed by, “D-dad?” Her voice was tumultuous and quiet all the same. “I can’t sleep.”

He’d lifted the covers and let her slide in next to him, her stuffed bird flopping next to his head on the pillow. Where he had been groggy when she’d come in, he found himself wide awake when she pressed her ear to his chest, sighing and settling easy as she listened to his heartbeat. It was difficult to force himself to sleep after that, not wanting to miss a minute of this easy comfort that he’d been able to give to her - that she’d wanted to get from him. It wasn’t some crazy starry-eyed moment, but it was a big one all the same.

Suraya almost never came to either of them for comfort, rarely asked for anything they didn’t offer first. This was a huge step. A huge victory - for all of them - but most assuredly for the little girl drooling on his shirt, fingers wrapped around his collar who was finally allowing herself to seek what she needed (and they so desperately wished to give).

It’s a week or so later after dinner that the communications device that Marc and Dev so rarely use begins chiming with a video call. Marc shouts at her to come into the kitchen and join him, pulling her onto his lap as he accepts it.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Marc quips as Devrim’s face comes into view. He looks well, a little scruffier than usual, and maybe a bit tired, but the glow in his eyes is warmer than usual. “We’ve been waiting all day for your call.” Suraya nods, cheeks staining pink.

“Hello, loves,” Dev says, and his voice is thick with emotion. “I trust you’ve been well?”

“Of course,” Marc replies easily. “Haven’t we?”

Suraya nods, little eyes still focused on the screen, hands clutching to the edge of the table. “Yeah,” She agrees. Marc thinks she’d hug the screen if he’d let her take the tablet.

“We’ve just finished up,” Dev informs them. “It’ll be another four days, but we should be home in time for the weekend.” Suraya gasps and looks at Marc, who smiles at her.

“That sounds lovely. You’ve been missed.” Suraya leans back against Marc, who wraps an arm around her middle to keep her steady while he fills Dev in on mundane things he’s missed - news, developments at work, and Suraya’s grades in school.

“What say you?” Devrim says, regarding her fondly when they’ve carried on without her long enough. “You’ve been behaving for Marc, yes?”

“Trying to,” Suraya responds. “We saw a musical,” She offers bashfully.

“Did you now?” The sniper leans forward, eyes sparkling, encouraging her to continue. She tells him she liked the music and the costumes, and gives him a very simple explanation of the story. Marc’s lips pull into a small little smile watching his husband indulge her, coax details out of her in his expert way. They carry on for a short while - he won’t have much more time to talk before the next member of his squad will want a turn to call home.

“Alright,” Marc says, when he hears the voices in the background get a bit more urgent. “We won’t keep you. We’ll see you this weekend, darling.”  
  


“I love and miss you both,” Devrim replies. “I’ll see you soon.” He doesn’t miss the look of terror on Suraya’s face or how she bites her lower lip. “Chin up, my dear. Only a few more days.”

“We love you, too,” Marc tells him. Their eyes soften in silent regard, communicating in a way that doesn’t need words.

He’s about to reach for the end call toggle when Suraya blurts, “I miss you, Daddy!”

It’s enough to make Marc’s hand drop short of hitting the disconnect. She’s looking away, cheeks hot and flushed, bashful as ever. Marc can’t help but smile Dev’s wide-eyed look of surprise. “Suraya,” The militiaman calls. Marc can hear how choked up he is, can see the tremor of his lower lip. “My darling girl,” He says. “I miss you more than words could ever say. I’ll be home soon.”

She looks at his face on the screen and nods, scoots down off Marc’s lap a second later. Marc’s gotten better about being able to hear her move through the house, knows she’s gone up to her room.

Marc shifts his head a little in a half-shrug as Dev breathes out a shaky exhale, wipes at his eyes. “How’s it feel, Daddy?”

“I cannot wait to come home to you both,” He says, and it’s never sounded more true. “Did you know she’d...” He clears his throat unable to continue. Marc chuckles softly.

“She might have asked if you’d mind.”

“I-” He laughs, giddy and overwhelmed.

“Pull yourself together, darling, the whole squad’s going to see you crying.”

“They can piss off,” He barks hoarsely. “I’ll bawl if I please. Our daughter-” Devrim shakes his head, looking so unbelievably pleased. “She’s perfect. I love her. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Marc tips his chin up. “Go on then, brag to the them. I know you want to.”

Devrim smirks. “Right you are. I’ll be home soon.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Marc says before they disconnect, “Daddy.”

Marc is willing to bet his husband will still be grinning from ear to ear when they pick him up at the end of the week. But until then, he’s got a little girl to give a bath and a bedtime story to read. Such is the life of a dad.


	5. separation anxiety

They had thought she wouldn't know. She's pretty sure, at least. She isn't stupid though. She knows Dev put on that good smelling cologne-stuff he wears when they go out somewhere nice. She can smell it when he tucks her in and holds her close. That's her favorite part of going to bed, and tonight it's been ruined by the questions of where and why.

She hears the front door open and close, and the sound of a woman's voice downstairs. It reminds her of the volunteers who would come and spend time with the kids in the orphanage. They were always miserable about having to waste their time with a bunch of little brats, so she's sure this lady can't be very happy about it.

Of course, it's at that moment that she realizes Dev and Marc are actually leaving. They're going to go and not be there and she's going to be ALONE with this lady for who knows how long. What if this lady is just as mean as the volunteers? Or what if she's meaner? What if she's as mean as the lady who brought her into the orphanage and made her do all sorts of tests and examined her? And more importantly, where are they going? Are they coming back? What if something bad happens? Will she be alone forever?

Terror and dread creep up her spine, make her shake and breath come in great pants. She holds Bird - her stuffed bird - as close to her chest as she can, and waits for her lungs to feel less like someone is stepping on them. Tears stream down her face, but she doesn't want to make a fuss. They think she's sleeping, so she's going to pretend she's sleeping so they don’t get mad. She rolls over, facing away from the door and toward the wall, stays quiet when she hears footsteps outside her room. Three sets. She's good at listening for things.

“It'll be fine,” the woman says. Her voice is scar-scratchy. Her voice is scratchy, Suraya corrects herself.

Someone sighs. It sounds like Devrim.

“She’ll never know,” Marc’s voice comes. The door cracks open a teensy bit, a sliver of pale light cast against the wall. She holds still, doesn’t breathe. Don’t let them know, she thinks. She’s tough. She’s been alone before. This is nothing to worry about. “See? She's out like a light, Dev. It’s fine.” Her door clicks shut.

People always say it will be fine, and it never, ever is.

When the front door opens and closes again, and the sound of some late night drama can be heard from downstairs at a volume that's louder than she's used to, Suraya lets out a shaky breath, sits up, and pulls her knees up to her chest. Bird is smooshed between her chest and legs. She does her best to control her breathing. She'd learned to do that before, after bad dreams when she'd wake up alone in her bunk. Used to it, she tells herself. She's used to being alone.

It's not okay, though, she thinks. Doesn't stop the staccato race of her heart, or the tears that well up in her eyes, or the thoughts that even if Dev and Marc do mean what they say when they say she's theirs and she isn't going back and it's forever that what if they don't come home? What if something bad happens and they can’t?

Then she'd have to go back to the orphanage, and the only people who have ever said they'd wanted her (not a perfect baby or a better behaved child) would be dead.

-/

Devrim is absolutely furious. At Marc for telling him it would be fine, at the sitter for not once checking on Suraya, and at himself for not trusting his gut and staying home. Their meal was adequate at best, certainly nothing to write home about.

They get home at half past midnight, and yes, certainly it was lovely spending time alone with his dear husband. He'd missed their dates, soft candlelight, fond gazes, tenderly stroking each other's hand across the table. Admittedly, it was nice to get a break, to not worry about little eyes or ears, even if those little eyes and ears were all they talked about. And fine, the food was actually rather tasty.

He just felt horrifically guilty about enjoying himself, worrying about if she would wake to them gone. How she’d feel that they didn’t tell her first and left her with a stranger. Even if they’d made sure to plan things around what times she’d be sleeping as to not disturb her routine, he still worried. Marc assured him he had similar concerns, but that it would be alright.

The mood killer was coming home and thinking everything was just fine - “She didn't make a peep the whole time, such a good girl you have.” - only to realize that it isn't. He'd gone up to check on her because his gut was churning. He heard the flutter of blankets as he came up the stairs. Knew something was awry. He opened the door and stepped in quietly, lingering for a few moments. Notices the too tense posture. She's clearly awake. He takes another two steps and slides a hand down her back. She flinches and whimpers, but does not open her eyes.

He forces himself not to jerk his hand despite himself. Too soon, he thinks. It was too soon. Of course she knew. She probably heard an unfamiliar voice or the opening and closing of doors. She hears seemingly everything.

“Suraya, love, are you awake?” He croons, fully aware of the answer as he sits on the edge of the bed.

Her eyes squeeze shut tighter. Had she not been caught at the onset, he might have believed her asleep, but it's clear she's played possum before. He sighs, rising off the bed and stepping to the door. He is careful to take two extra steps and shut the door while standing directly inside of it. The sniper holds his breath and waits.

She rolls onto her back, a little flop, and her eyes blink up toward the ceiling. He dares not move, watching silently as she drops Bird onto her chest and hugs him tightly while sniffling and almost gasping to breathe. It’s a moment or two before she whimpers again, and her hands cover her mouth, eyes squeezing shut.

It’s only been barely a month, he berates himself. They could have - they should have waited. She’s still on edge for the slightest things, says she understands they won’t send her back, but he sees how she looks when one of them gets frustrated with something that has nothing to do with her. She doesn’t trust them. This has only set them back. Telling her they were leaving and reassuring her they were coming back would have been better. Anything would have been better than this, really.

“Suraya,” He whispers. Her head snaps over toward him, and she all but stuffs her fist into her mouth to stifle the surprised gasp before rolling away from him. “Sweetheart.”

She shakes her head into the pillow, openly crying now as she curls up facing the wall.

Marc is opening the door around the time he attempts to pick her up. She shakes her head as he speaks, “Dev-”

“Not now.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yes,” Devrim says, all ice. “We never should have gone out without telling her,” He says as she shuffles away from him. “We should have known. Look what we’ve done.”

Marc comes around the other side of the bed, looking at her. She squeezes her eyes shut. “Baby, it’s okay,” He says. “Everything is fine.”

“No.” Her voice is soft. “‘S not.”

When Marc reaches for her, she recoils. His dark eyes flick over to Devrim’s. He’s shaking his head, looking morose, disappointed in them both, Marc’s sure. Suraya squeezes Bird tightly and buries her head into the top of his and cries herself to sleep, her parents looking on helplessly. Any attempts to touch her only make her cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” Marc says, looking over at him. “I really didn’t think she’d wake up,” He whispers when her sobs have subsided into little snores a small eternity later. “We’ve had her on such a consistent schedule-”

“We should have talked to her,” Dev replies. “We are just going to have to work harder to fix this. I don’t know when we’ll be able to go out again, just the two of us.”

“We’ll be fine. We’ve had enough dates, don’t you think? Besides, I cook better than that chef did tonight.” It's an attempt to lighten the mood. Marc is not the chef among them.

Devrim snorts quietly. “Right you are,” He agrees, despite very much doubting it. Changing the subject back, he says, “So, my dear, where do we even start?”

“Baby steps. Reinforcement. We’ll make it right.”

-/

She thinks she wakes somewhere different than she fell asleep, coming to with a violent jolt. She's tucked against something - someone? Did she get up on her own? That doesn't seem like something she would do…

There's a hand rubbing her back, in a big circle. It's warm and heavy, but not too heavy. It feels nice. She sighs, and all the yucky, sad, scary feelings come rushing back over her. With a start, she realizes she can smell Dev's good-smelling cologne. It's what upset her so much in the first place.

She opens her eyes a crack. She's still on her bed, but Devrim is on top of the covers beside her. Judging by his breathing - it's never this loud - he's asleep. Her head is tucked against his shirt - it's the same nice plaid one he had on yesterday. She sniffles a little and attempts to wiggle herself around to put her back against his chest. His arm relaxes just a touch, but once she's settled, he seeks out her hand. It's rather uncoordinated for him, being a man of impressive precision, but he squeezes her tiny hand with his much larger one and rubs the top of her palm with his thumb.

Marc hums when she opens her eyes again, a few moments after Dev's sluggish movements come to a halt.

“We made a mistake,” Marc whispers to her, when she's laid awake for a while. Her eyes find his. They look red and puffy, like something is wrong. She looks away, frightened. “I never should have convinced Dev to go out without talking to you about it first.” She blinks, wide awake now. “We didn't want to worry you, and yet we've managed to do far worse.”

She chances another blink in his direction. Devrim sleeps on. His hand twitches over hers and it makes her flinch.

“We're very new at this,” Marc says quietly. His whisper is rough around the edges, like a stormy sea. “And we didn't think. We hurt you, and we are so very, very sorry.”

That makes her pause, eyes widening as she stares at him. “S'ok,” Suraya whispers.

“It isn't,” Marc tells her. His knuckles brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Hurting the people we love - whether we mean well or not - is not okay.”

She reaches her free hand up to grab his own. “S'ok,” She whispers again, squeezing. “Didn't hurt me.”

He shakes his head. “Suraya, hurts aren't just physical. They're in here, too,” He taps his chest, where his heart is. “If we hurt your feelings or make you feel scared or sad or upset, that's hurting you, too. A different kind of hurting, but it still hurts, yes?”

Wide brown eyes blink more, looking a bit confused. “I dunno,” She says finally.

“How did you feel last night?” Marc asks.

“I dunno.” Angry, she thinks. Betrayed. Scared. But they would be mad. She doesn't want to make them mad. They might not want her, if she's mad at them.

Marc sighs. “You don't trust us, do you?” She looks down at her small hand dwarfed by Dev's, sucks her lower lip between her teeth. “And why should you?” She looks back at Marc in surprise. “We left you alone with a stranger. She's a nice lady, but you would never know that,” he says. “You're used to people leaving, aren't you?”

A tiny nod. A big concession.

He reaches his other hand out, scooping her up from under Dev's arm. The sleeping man frowns at the loss, brows furrowing as his eyelids flutter. Instead of balancing her on his hip, he cradles her to his chest. “Dev and I won't leave you. Not by choice. Not ever. We might go out again-” she looks up at him in wide-eyed anxiety “-But that will be something we talk about, all of us. And we will tell you when we'll be back, so there will be no surprises. Does that sound fair?”

She nods immediately, and Marc tries not to sigh. She's lying. Her heart is racing, and she’s shaking. He knows it. She doesn't think her opinion matters and it's woefully obvious. He hugs her close, waits her out, and eventually, she yawns.

“Still tired?”

She shrugs in his arms.

He hums a quiet little ditty, and sways her gently. She looks insulted at first, as though she's being treated like a baby, but her eyelids droop against her will, and her head drops to his shoulder. It wakes her with a jolt, but Marc doesn't falter.

“I’ve got you,” He promises, when she lets her eyes close again. She presses her nose against his neck, inhales with a deep sigh. “We love you. We would do anything for you. Don't be afraid to tell us what you need.” His last word barely makes it into the room. “Please.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him, but starts shaking again. It makes him wonder who is trying to comfort who.


	6. making dinner

Dark eyes watched carefully from the kitchen table as Devrim prepared dinner. Marc would be home in an hour or so, and the three of them would eat dinner before getting Suraya prepared for bed. Devrim played quiet music, usually jazz while he worked, and Suraya sat at the table with coloring supplies, though she could usually only finish most of one picture before losing interest.

Of course, her father seemed to notice without turning around, that she had become far more interested in what was happening on the other side of the kitchen than she had been with the coloring book. He rinsed off his hands, crossed the room and regarded her with a little smirk.

“Care to help me prepare our supper? I could use a hand, if you're willing.”

She blinks up at him, nodding once, shyly.

It had only been a few days since the incident - the one where Marc and Dev had gone out and left her with the neighbor lady without telling her. She still didn't like not being with one of them - or at least knowing that they were in the house with her, but she tried not to let them know it. They were trying to be respectful of what she needed, they said. She didn't know that she needed anything, and she tried to tell them that she didn't. It was bad enough they came home almost every day with a new toy or game or clothes - they'd sent her with clothes from the orphanage. She knew how to wash them and everything. And for toys, she had Bird, and he was more than enough.

That line of thought is quickly short circuited by Devrim reaching down with one hand and plucking her from the chair, her arms circling his neck easily and leaning into the embrace. There was something about him that she couldn't explain but put her at ease. Devrim was quiet, said more with his eyes than with his words, and seemed to understand her without having to ask her a million questions. She liked Marc, but he had a lot of energy and was almost… bouncy. She still needed time to get used to him. Both of them, really, because Devrim's angry voice - worried voice, Marc said - frightened her still.

The sound of the chair being placed in front of the sink jolts her from those thoughts, around the same time Dev's gentle chuckle sounds from somewhere in her hair. “I could cuddle you all day,” He tells her quietly, “But we have a job to do. Plenty of time for it later while we wait for our supper to cook. What do you say?”

She nods into his shoulder and lets go, feet dropping to the chair. One side of the sink has several potatoes. The other side is empty save for a brush. She reaches for it and adjusts the temperature of the tap.

“Ah, you already know what to do,” He muses, in a tone that's not jovial but isn't negative. Quieter, he ventures, “You’ve helped with cooking before?”

“E'rybody had a job,” She replies. It comes out easier, fingers occupied by holding a spud and scrubbing it with the other hand. “Liked to help cook,” She says, slowly.

“Hm.” Devrim slices onions and carrots easily, chancing a glance over at her. She's focused. “I don't see why you can't help us, too,” He offers. “Maybe once or twice a week. Would you like that?”

She sets a clean potato on the board next to him. “Yeah,” She agrees. And then, excitedly for what might be the first time, “Can we make spaghetti?”

As if she's discovered she's being too forward, she drops the brush into the sink with a clang and covers her mouth, eyes squeezed shut and waiting for a reprimand. Whomever caused her react this way - whatever it is that makes her think it is wrong to be excited or want something so insignificant... they’re lucky they haven’t met him. 

With a deep breath, Devrim pushes back his heartbreak and his anger and instead stops what he's doing. He tucks the brush back into one little hand and picks up a potato with the other, guiding her motions with both hands until her eyes open and she stops being so tense.

“Spaghetti is one of Marc's favorites,” Devrim says, like it's a secret. He keeps moving their hands together, turning the potato over to get the other side. “I happen to have a very good sauce recipe, but I might need some help stirring and rolling meatballs. Think you're up to the task, my dear?”

The tips her head back to look up at him, brown eyes glimmering in relief. He wonders what she were expecting, but dares not ask. “I think so,” She says, much more restrained.

He wants her to feel excited, if that’s what she wants to feel. Devrim makes a note to himself to have Marc make a big deal out of it tomorrow. But for now, he lets go of her hands with a gentle squeeze, kisses her cheek, and goes back to dicing vegetables.

She watches him resume his tasks without a fuss, rinsing the final potato as she asks, “D'you like spaghetti?”

“I do,” He says, sliding the vegetables into the pan around the meat. He reaches for the potatoes. “My mother used to make her sauce in bulk. You could smell the basil and garlic all the way down the block. She always made extra for the neighbors.”

“That sounds nice,” Suraya replies, and drops off the chair stealthily. She pushes it closer to Dev and pops back up, hovering around his elbow as he begins chopping the newly cleaned potatoes. “My mama never cooked. I like cooking.”

He startles - but recovers quickly - at the mention. He doesn't know what to say to that. Knows she remembers a bit about her parents, but it's still a surprise for her to share. He chooses to let the first bit go, not push the envelope. Selecting a breezy tone, he says, “Do you now?”

“I do,” Suraya agrees. “Like doing things together.”

“I see.” He slides the cutting board down, coming around behind her again. “Do watch your hands, and do not ever use one of these knives unless Marc or I grant you permission, understand?”

“Mmm-hmm,” She agrees.

Like a surgeon, he delicately but expertly positions his hands over hers, guiding her through slower than usual dicing technique. She giggles when a particularly difficult potato finally comes apart, one chunk bouncing away like it's been launched and landing on the other side of the kitchen.

“Tricky buggers,” Devrim says in her ear. “No match for us, though, are they darling?”

“Nope!” Her lips thin in determination, but she can't stop herself from smiling as she does. That's more like it, he thinks.

“That's right,” He chuckles, and she tilts her head over to look at him with a little giggle of her own. “Let us show these spuds who's boss.”


	7. reassurance

“Okay,” Devrim whispers, joining Marc in their living room. “She's asleep.” **  
**

The couple sits side by side on the couch, a few fingers of whiskey in identical rocks glasses on the coffee table in front of them. They had considered tea, but thought better of it. Some days, chamomile and honey just didn't take the edge off, no matter how hard one tried.

“What do we do?” Marc asks. “I mean, this isn't just a phase. She thought I was going to hurt her, cast her out, whatever -  for dropping a fucking dinner plate. She'd tripped over the rug, for Traveler's sake. “I don't - she can't - we didn't sign up for this.” Marc runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, we signed up for this, but I didn’t think it would be like this.”

Devrim sighs. He'd always expected himself to be the one to have trouble with this. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted a child before, but he wasn't so hell-bent on it the way Marc had been. He puts an arm around his husband's shoulders and pulls him in. Being the shorter of the two of them, Marc fits under his chin perfectly and what starts as a hug winds up with them hip-to-hip on the couch, lying beside each other. Dev hands him his whiskey before taking his own glass and tipping it to his lips.

“We're her fathers,” Devrim rumbles, after a coarse swallow of the fiery liquid. “We will see her through. Isn't that what you've been telling me?”

“Yes, but she hasn't asked you not to hit her.”

“She still flinches if she doesn't see me coming,” Devrim remarks. This is the same conversation they'd had several times before, roles newly reversed. “Someone harmed her, made her believe all of these nasty things would happen if she wasn't ‘good.’ Part of me does not ever want to know whom, because believe me when I tell you I have never felt so inclined to commit murder. However,” His clear blue eyes regard his husband seriously, “She knows she is safe. She trusts us a little more each day. She wants to be here with us. Suraya is going to have setbacks. The best among us do without what she’s been through. We just have to let her learn that it's okay.”

“Have you been reading my parenting books?”

Devrim grumbles defensively, “That's preposterous. My dear Marc, I-”

His husband smiles sweetly, not pressing what he already knows to be true. “I mean, I wasn't sure how you were going to handle the adjustment, but here you are, doing better than me.”

“Really, that's ridiculous. Half of what I know is from watching your intera- what?”

Marc sets his drink aside and cups Devrim's face, dark eyes warm by comparison to the pools of glacial blue he stare into. “Devrim, my love, you don't get to see yourself the way I do, or how she looks at you. She loves you.”

“I - you think?” The wide-eyed reaction of his husband makes Marc smile. Seems neither of them are as sure if themselves as the other thinks, today.

A firm nod is Dev’s answer. “You chose her, darling. Not that I would have it any other way. But, you are the one who picked her, and it's very clear she's chosen you back.”

“Us,” Devrim corrects. “She chose us.”

“Perhaps, but I know who she clings to after a nightmare, and the first person she runs to when we get her from school. She's ours, but she's her father's daughter.”

“She's both our-”

“Devrim Kay, VIII, do not argue with me.”

Devrim grins. “I know, Marc, I know. I just don't want you to feel left out.”

“I don't, usually,” He admits. “She just took to you far quicker than I anticipated.”

“If I recall, she still takes to you in the mornings,” Dev replies.

“That's because you're an absolute bear in the morning until you've had your cuppa. She only goes to you if she thinks she’s going to be able to convince you to have a kip instead.”

“That is fair, I suppose.” Dev nudges him, nose to nose, before dipping in for a kiss. It's sweet and gentle, meant to be reassuring until it's not. Then, it's all needy and hands under shirts and well-placed kisses that worry teeth against too-sensitive skin.

“Bedroom,” Marc exhales just before Devrim has him pinned underneath him on the couch. “Bedroom, now.” The last bit is almost a whine and sounds so very sweet to his husband's ears.

“Yes, of course, my love,” Dev nuzzles Marc's neck, stubble scraping just lightly enough to make him gasp and buck beneath him. “We're parents, after all. You didn't think I planned to shag you here, did you?” It's a knowing tone.

Marc swats his husband's rear and growls out, “You're going to be if you don't bloody move,  _darling_.”


	8. appendicitis i

The day definitely didn’t start out like this. She had gone to school like normal. It was more boring, and she felt tired - a little - but not like this. Marc had come to get her at the end of the day, and the walk home felt like it was twice as long. She doesn’t think she’s done any of her homework, either. She’s supposed to read to Dev and Marc ten pages of her book. It’s about a family of ants, or maybe caterpillars? Bugs? Some kind of insect.

Marc had told her to sit on the couch, that he would bring her a snack. That was the last thing she remembered.

She lays her head back against the couch - she’s laying down now, news to her - around the same time a hand finds her forehead. The lower pitch is definitely Devrim, she realizes absently, turning her head into the touch. His hand slides down her cheek and he strokes her from temple to jawline very carefully. She groans and opens her eyes just a little when his hand stills.

“Hello, Suraya,” Devrim smiles down at her, a little, sad thing that makes her chest feel tight. “Feeling a bit under the weather?”

Little hands scramble to push herself up, and she shakes her head in the negative, not wanting to bother him or Marc. She sways to stay upright, and Devrim chuckles softly when he steadies her with a firm hand and slides onto the couch where her head was, offsetting a few pillows. There’s no fight to have her rest her head against his leg, only a little gumble when the couch dips at her feet.

Marc slides another blanket over her and rubs a hand down her shin and foot over the blankets as he settles.  “Easy, sweetheart,” He whispers, mindful of the headache he’s sure she has. “Let us know if it’s too loud for you, okay?”

Devrim’s hand finds her forehead again, and she’s out before she can even hum in the affirmative.

She wakes feeling like she’s underwater. Everything around her moves in fuzzy, hazy shapes, murky, half-garbled words. She’s both hot and cold, shaking and sweating. When she doesn’t feel like there’s something pulling her down, down, down, she feels like her tummy is being stabbed and pushed on to the point where she thinks she’s going to burst.

Everything comes in fits and starts, gasping, panting breaths and strange nightmares that she couldn’t tell apart from being awake, and shaky-pains that felt like they were all over. She bolts straight up - Dev’s clearly fallen asleep on the couch, but her gasp brings him to with one of his own.

Marc swoops in, coming down the stairs in sleep clothes, hoisting her up against him without much effort. “Princess,” He slicks back her sweaty hair. “We’re going to have to take your temperature. You feel like you’re burning up. I think you’ll need some medicine.”

She shakes her head.

“It’s okay,” Marc tells her. “We have the good kind, it tastes like strawberries.”

She sighs, but keeping her head up is too much of a fight, and she lets her head slump onto his shoulder as he brings her into the washroom. He pulls the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet, and instructs her to open her mouth around the time Devrim comes to linger in the doorway, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

Another tiny refusal meets Marc’s request. “‘M fine,” Suraya insists. “I’ll go to bed,” She says quieter.

“It’s alright to be sick, Suraya. Even Marc and I get sick sometimes.” Even at Devrim’s concession, she shakes her head.

Marc glances at Devrim over Suraya’s mop of unruly hair. Devrim nods.

“Will you let Dev take your temperature?” Marc asks quietly.

She shakes her head into Marc’s shoulder.

“Why not?” Devrim takes a step into the room, removes the thermometer from Marc’s hands. “I promise you won’t be in trouble for being sick, my dear. We’re worried about you.”

“‘M not sick, I’m fine.” An out of focus series of blinks accompanies this very sad defense, and Devrim sighs.

“Suraya, you will do as I tell you,” He intones with authority, eyes clearly remorseful as her snap open wide in surprise and fear. “Open your mouth, please.” His voice brokers no argument and she shakes against Marc.

“No,” She says. “Not sick.”

“Suraya!”

She shakes her head, pushes her face into Marc’s collarbone so that the thermometer cannot be put into her mouth by force. Devrim looks at Marc who sighs. “Suraya, let your Daddy take care of you. Please. We just want you to feel better.”

“Feel fine.”

“No you don’t, sweetheart. You’re sick.”

“No no no no no,” She babbles. “Not sick. Not sick.”

“You’re ill,” Devrim whispers, lips brushing against her hairline, though his clearwater eyes look up at Marc’s dark ones in a mix of fear and anguish. “Please let us take care of you, that’s all we want to do.”

“Sick kids are bad,” She says.

“Our sick kid is good,” Marc counters. “You are a good girl,” He tells her. “The very best. Isn’t that right, Dev?”

“Absolutely,” Marc’s husband agrees, without a second’s hesitation. “You are ours, and you are good. Please let us take your temperature and give you medicine.”

“Wanna cuddle,” She says softly.

“After you let us take your temperature. Fair?”

She looks over at Dev, teary-eyed. “‘M not in trouble?”

“No, Suraya. You are not in trouble.” He reinforces this, saying, “You are good, and you are ours.”

She rests her head on his shoulder again, but lets her mouth hang open just a little, and even though she gags when Dev slides the thermometer into her mouth, she doesn’t fuss. Marc rubs her back and hums some melody she distantly recalls. The thermometer is out of her mouth before she knows it, and her eyes drift closed before she can see Devrim’s frown as he analyzes the results.

“No sleeping yet,” Marc says, nudging her cheek with his nose what feels like hours and not seconds later to the sick child. “C’mon, sweetheart. Got to wake up and take some medicine, then we’ll let you sleep.”

Suraya groans and blinks heavily. It takes a minute for the girl to understand what’s being asked of her, but she does accept the medicine in the dropper that Devrim holds to her mouth. It’s better than most medicine she’s had, but it’s still bitter and burns a little. When it’s all done, she reaches for Devrim with a sad, sleepy gesture.

Marc chuckles. “Want your Daddy?”

“Mmhmm,” She agrees. It sounds almost like a whine. Devrim’s eyes soften marginally as Marc shuffles her over to him and watches her latch on.

“It’s alright,” He tells her, when she pushes her face against his neck. She’s terribly feverish, her forehead hot against him, “Daddy’s got you, love. You’re safe.”

Her nods come with trembling hiccups, and Marc watches sadly as Dev rocks her until she stills. “I’ll take the day off,” Dev offers. “Squad can get by without. You have a meeting you can’t miss.”

“You sure? You’ve never missed a day.”

“Marc, darling,” His eyebrows go up, “I assure you it’s quite alright. Something about leaving her… bothers me. Not that you couldn’t handle it, I just-”

The smile that Marc gives him is brilliant. “You’re her Daddy,” His husband says. “And you’ve just recently gotten back from being away for a while. I think you’ve earned the right to hog her for yourself. I’m not mad,” He affirms. “I’m glad she has such a wonderful father.”

“Two wonderful fathers,” Devrim amends.

“Agreed.”

-/

“Alright,” Marc says, straightening his tie. Devrim kisses him chastely, still in his pajamas. He sets aside his mug of tea to give his husband a hug. “Call me if anything changes. Or if you need me to come home. Or if she gets worse.”

“I will,” Devrim promises. “Don’t be late for work. She’ll be fine.”

Suraya had only settled down an hour or two before, and its after draining his mug and cleaning the kitchen that Dev settles into the recliner in the corner of Suraya’s bedroom and allows himself to doze. It’s not long after he falls asleep that there’s a stumbling sound that jolts him awake, followed by little gurgles and retching from down the hall. Devrim takes off at a tear, finding her on the floor in the washroom, glassy eyes watery and both hands holding her stomach. She’s managed to contain her throwing up to the toilet - an easy clean. He’s grateful, even if he’s still floored by how mindful she is, even when sick(and a sick child, at that).

“I don’t feel good,” Suraya says, when his hand slides down her back and she winces. “My stomach hurts.” She moves back to stand, but her hands don’t leave her belly. “Worse than yesterday.”

“Your stomach hurt yesterday?” Devrim asks. “Did you eat anything?”

She shrugs. He looks down at her seriously, and she dips her head once to the first question before shaking her head to the second, the motion making her dizzy enough that her eyes roll back and she staggers. Devrim grabs her, and she recoils despite being unconscious.

He calls the pediatrician immediately, and physician’s response is to take Suraya to a hospital immediately, especially since her temperature hasn’t gone down. It’s mostly a precaution, taking into consideration how impossibly stubborn she is about sharing how she feels. Devrim makes the mistake of looking up her symptoms on his tablet while he’s on the phone with doctor, and it takes every fibre of his being not to call Marc at work to demand that he come with.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. This is a precaution.

Except there’s a nagging feeling in his gut that says otherwise.


	9. appendicitis ii

Suraya wakes crying and hallucinating on their way to the hospital, asking why her (very dead) mother is there. With them. In the vehicle. Devrim thinks he’s going to be sick when she begins asking the hallucination of her deceased parent if they are here to take her away, then screaming that she doesn’t want to go, she wants her dads - _her_ Marc and _her_ Dev, she specifies at a fever pitch - and then dissolving into wails when Devrim grabs her, telling her and any delusion that will listen that they can’t have her, that she’s not going anywhere but home with them once the doctor makes her better.

Devrim’s a literal disaster by the time he caves and calls Marc, who is more concerned than he is angry - the tremor in Devrim’s voice is something he can’t unhear - and he leaves work immediately, important meetings be damned. By the time Marc makes it into the room, Devrim is about as pale as the child in the bed, and he insists everyone leave the three of them alone. Suraya is awake, barely, clinging to Devrim’s hand with both of hers.

“What’s happening?” Marc asks.

Suraya looks down at their hands. “Doctor says I need a ‘mergency operation,” She offers quietly, and squeezes Devrim’s hand when it shakes. Marc’s lower lip gets sucked between his teeth. He knows that feeling - the one where the kid is stronger than the parent - he’s felt it before with Suraya, and he’s seeing it right now. It’s harder to watch, he decides. Devrim is not handling this well, not at all. Marc looks to Suraya who slides her tired eyes over to Marc carefully. “‘S my apensicks,” She tries to explain, imploring him to understand. At this point, talking makes her exhausted.

“Your appendix,” Marc corrects. He’s aware of the procedure.

“Mmm,” She agrees, and her fingers smooth over the top of Devrim’s hands.

“When?” He looks to Devrim. “Did a surgeon come in?”

“Just left. They’re preparing the operating theatre right now.”

“Did they tell you what they’re going to do?” Marc looks to Suraya, trying to mask his concern.

A grim smile meets him. She’s a brave little girl. “Yeah,” Suraya says. “I don’t wanna,” She admits, but adds “It’s gonna hurt, but I need it so I don’t die.”

“Okay,” Marc says, when Devrim looks down and away. He takes a wide path around the too-large hospital bed and puts a hand on Dev’s shoulder, standing beside him. “Do we need to do anything?” He asks his husband.

Devrim shakes his head. “I signed for everything already,” He imparts quietly.

A very brightly garbed nurse comes to see them a few moments later, checking things over, asking them questions that are incredibly simple, and then explaining in very simplified terms that Suraya would wear a mask and it would make her fall asleep, and when she woke up, she would feel sleepy, but way better.

“We’ll take good care of you,” The nurse says. “You’ll be back with your parents in no time.”

Suraya nods, looking uneasy. She swallows hard. “We’re scared,” She says shyly. There’s a lot of parallels she can make to the orphanage, but right now, she hurts too badly to worry about them. All she cares about is the two men beside her and stopping the burning feeling in her tummy.

Devrim turns his head into Marc’s side as the nurse dips down to her level. “They’re good daddies, huh?”

“The best,” Suraya agrees softly, wincing as she shifts. One of the men beside her makes a little inhale of surprise at her openness, but she pays it no mind, more concerned with what the nurse is doing to the bag that’s connected to her arm.

“Alright,” The nurse says. “Better give them hugs before your nap, huh?”

Both parents stand while the nurse retrieves what she needs to proceed from the cabinets on the wall facing the bed. Marc goes first, kissing her forehead while she lifts heavy arms up to hug his head.

“Alright, kiddo,” Marc says, proud at how well he keeps the worry from bleeding into his tone, especially considering the whirlwind that this turned into. “Sleep tight.”

She nods and gives him a little smile that’s almost a smirk. “Ok, Dad,” She agrees. Calling them by their titles seems to make them feel good, and it’s no different now. She’s still getting used to it, but now seems to be one of the right times to do so. Marc gives her a smile and a wink to match.

Devrim sinks onto the bed beside her, lip quivering. Suraya puts both hands on his face, one on each cheek. He closes his eyes and sighs when she pats them gently. “You’ll be there when I wake up?” She asks.

The militiaman nods. “Of course,” He grits out. “I won’t go anywhere.”

“Good,” She says back. The nurse has her equipment lined up now, and Dev reaches down to pull her into a hug before he’s asked to step away.

“I love you,” He tells her, barely a rumble in her ear. “So much.”

Little Suraya smiles, pushes their noses and foreheads together. “It’s gonna be okay, Daddy. I promise.”

He laughs at that, the irony of it all, and squeezes her hand. “It will,” He agrees. Her fingers lace with his. Marc rubs his back and leans against him, a familiar, comforting gesture.

“Alright sweetheart,” The nurse shows her a clear mask. “It’s going to smell like bubble gum, and then you’ll fall right asleep. Sound okay?”

She nods, but bites her lip - only able to be so strong despite her anxiety. Dev squeezes her hand. “We’ll be right here, my dear Suraya. We aren’t going anywhere.”

His steadiness is an anchor, their roles back to normal. She nods and looks at them both, the tiniest quirk of lips as the mask is looped over her ears and affixed to her face.  Devrim nods. Marc smiles and says, “We’ll see you in a couple hours, sweetheart. We love you.” Her lips move under the mask, fingers squeezing tight around Dev’s hand before becoming limp as the medication does its job.

-/

Marc has never seen his husband so anxious before. Not that Marc himself isn't nervous, because he is, or worries, because he does.

“I was alone with her all morning,” Devrim finally admits. “I didn't even know until she sicked up.”

“Sometimes, that happens,” Marc reminds him. “Children exhibit different symptoms than adults, Devrim. You reacted to her symptoms appropriately.” He reaches out and grabs his spouse's wrist, jerking him out of his path across the room. “Would you come here already?”

It's very clear that Devrim blames himself, but Marc honestly doesn't see how it can be his fault. He'd told Marc that he called the pediatrician the second she said her stomach hurt. He reacted the way he was supposed to. The militiaman drops into the chair beside Marc as though he's dead weight. Dev's face gets buried in Marc's neck the second Marc reaches an arm around his shoulders.

“She was seeing things,” Dev murmurs into Marc's throat. “Her mother. People do those things when they're dying, Marc. In the field. I can't-”

“It's okay,” Marc rubs his back gently, the motion pulling Dev into him more each time. “She's tough. She'll pull through.” His eyes sweep across the empty waiting room. “Appendectomies are relatively common in children. Don't fret, my love. She's where she's supposed to be.”

Devrim still worries. He spends the next two hours fitfully dozing against his husband, jerking awake at phantom noises. He'd willingly take to any battlefield, any day, than go through this.

The doctor - a stout, short man, with white hair and glasses - enters the waiting room a short while later. He offers them a tentative smile when Devrim all but leaps to his feet. Marc's hand finds his wrist, is an anchor to calm him down.

“It will be a little while until she's back into her room,” The doctor informs them. “Her appendix has been removed with minimal issues. She'll be sore, but back to normal in a few weeks.”

Devrim scrubs a hand over his eyes and Marc knows he isn't crying, but it's a close thing. Suraya turns him into a blubbering baby. “When can we take her home?” Marc asks carefully, watching Devrim's twitch out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah, a day or two. We just want to monitor her. Of course, you're welcome to stay with her the whole time.”

Devrim hums, and Marc is already aware of who is going to get him a change of clothes. Dev won't leave her alone. Marc is pretty sure he would have gone into the operating theatre if they would have let him.

Half an hour later, they're escorted by another nurse to a different room. This one is a bit more like a hospital room than a triage one. Suraya's head is shifting, lips pulled into a thin line, and Marc drops Devrim's hand so he's got two to cup her face and kiss her forehead, all the while whispering all sorts of sweet things against her scalp.

“D...Daddy?” She's groggy, motions uncoordinated. Her eyes stay closed. Devrim kisses her forehead and smoothes back her hair.

“I'm here,” He tells her. “You did so well, Suraya. We're proud of you.”

She hums, patting the bed beside her, looking for his hand. He slides it under her fingertips and she squeezes it. “It's okay,” She tells him, eyes opening just a little. “You're a good Daddy,” She breathes.

Marc looks away then, because Devrim sputters at that, and if he isn't crying - or at least teary-eyed - Marc would be surprised(and if Dev cries, Marc will surely lose it too). His husband and daughter have this ridiculous connection. It's as if one of them knows how the other one feels without context. When he does look her way, Devrim's face is pushed into the sheets near their joined hands, his body bowed almost out of the chair he's sitting in beside the bed. Marc does his best to mask his quiet sigh, but draws her attention.

Suraya's eyes meet Marc's similarly dark ones with a quiet, tired look. She reaches a hand out in a mostly coordinated flop, and draws a smile from her other parent as he makes his way to the bed.

“Hi Dad,” She says to him.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Marc dips over to kiss her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

“I'll bet. Better though?”

“Yeah,” She agrees. Devrim squeezes her hand, and she looks over his way when she returns the gesture. “Sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“I didn't mean to be sick.” She tries to shift, to sit up, but Devrim is there, pushing her back down gently.

“Nonsense,” Dev tells her, cheekbones slightly more pink than usual. “You couldn't have helped it. You are allowed to be sick,” He informs.

“But-”

“When you get home, you’ll have to rest on the couch, snuggling and watching movies with your Daddy. You gave him quite a scare, so I think he'll need extra cuddles for a bit,” Marc says with a secretive smile.

She nods, wiggling despite the grimace when she feels pain in her abdomen. When she's almost all the way over toward Marc, she tugs on Dev's hand. “Please,” She all but whispers.

Marc chuckles at the startled look on Dev's face. “Go on, cuddle our girl,” He encourages. “She needs her Daddy.”

The sniper nods, kicking off his shoes before carefully sitting on the bed beside her. It doesn't hit him that he's exhausted until his head hits the pillow beside her, their interlocked hands at her side. He struggles against heavy eyelids but falls asleep a bit too easily, leaving Suraya and Marc to each other’s company.

“He loves you very much,” Marc says, with a soft smile, gazing at his husband's face. “We both do. You know that, right?”

She nods, carefully lifting their interlocked hands so that his palm is on the non-aching side of her belly. “You're good daddies,” She tells Marc. “I didn't want to die. It hurt a lot.” Tears leak from her eyes, and Marc sighs.

“I know, baby, and that's why you had the operation. Everything is alright now.”

“Dev was really scared.”

“He was,” Marc agrees. “We both were. You were very sick. You're still a little sick now, but you're going to get better quick.”

“Can we go home?”

“Not yet. But we will. Together.”

-/

It isn't Suraya who has difficulties with recovery. It's Devrim. Marc finds him on the recliner in her room or with her on the couch most evenings after they get home. The two nights he attempts to sleep in their bed, he wakes up shouting from nightmares, and dashes to her room as if he's going to find her gone.

After a week of such behavior, Suraya walks Dev back to his bedroom, climbing up onto their bed and sliding under the covers. “Dad,” She whispers to a newly awake Marc. “I'm gonna sleep here tonight.” She doesn’t wait for an answer to settle in.

Marc hums and kisses her brow, whispering his thanks in her ear as the bed dips, and Devrim lays on the other side of them. A small hand strokes up and down the militiaman's cheeks and Marc watches as she does for Devrim what they've been doing for her when her nightmares feel like they're real. It makes his heart ache, but makes him proud in equal measure.

“It's okay,” Suraya's voice is low, but steadier than either of them can recall. “I'm here.”

Blue eyes open half-way. Marc feels a tug in his chest at how tired Dev is. He doubts Devrim's gotten any decent sleep since she got sick. “So you are,” Dev gruffs out, mostly in a mumble.

A few moments pass, and a very tiny whisper fills the space between Devrim's deep breaths. “We love you,” She says. “Dad and I love you, and it's gonna be okay.”

Marc hugs Suraya from behind, mindful of her wound, and she snuggles against him. “You make us proud to be your fathers,” He murmurs into her ear. She smiles, though none of them can see it, and closes her eyes.

All of them get a good night’s sleep.


	10. Bird

To say she's overwhelmed is an understatement. They stand in the doorway of a large toy shoppe, Suraya between them. Her eyes are as big as saucers. It's clear she's never been in a store like this before.

“What say you pick something out?” Marc grins down at her.

She takes a step backward when a nearby display makes a shrill sound as part of its demo. Devrim drops down to a knee almost immediately. She'd insisted on walking the whole way here. Insisted on doing most things herself, really. It's clear she's unused to any kind of affection, be it emotional of physical.

“New to this, sweetheart?” He asks in a quiet lilt.

Darkwood eyes dart up at him and then back to the floor as she looks away and nods once. “It's loud,” She whispers.

“May I?” He asks, holding his arms out to her. Over Suraya's shoulders, Marc is watching quietly, patiently. Since they'd brought her home a day ago, she's been like night and day, all quiet, little bravado. It was like having a cat, not a child.

The tiniest peek of hesitancy in her face turns into a wince as another child knocks something off a display nearby. Dev smiles - a small, tender thing, still mildly in disbelief that they’ve done it, this little lady is theirs now - and gestures toward her. She takes a meek step in his direction, allowing him to brace her sides and hoist her up onto his hip. Marc smiles widely at the development.

“Alright,” Devrim rumbles, giving her a sideways glance, “What kind of toy shall we procure, huh? It can be anything you want.”

That much control over the situation is clearly too much for her, and it shows as they walk through the aisles. Marc starts to pick out dolls, cars, trains, ships, and anything else he can think of. He’d asked around at work, many of his coworkers providing suggestions that their children had played with at that age. It was mildly deflating for her to show little interest, eyes scanning an item Marc showed her and then shrugging when he asked if she’d like it.

Eventually, when it had gone on for a while, she said, “I don’t need nothin’,” And Dev rubbed her back gently, seeming to understand.

“No, perhaps not,” He agreed. “But we would like to get you something anyway.”

“Never had my own toy,” She admits in a rushed whisper into his ear. “Not that I c’n remember.”

Devrim’s look to Marc was something like cold fire. It screamed ‘we’ll talk about this later’ without being too obvious. “I think we’re going about this all wrong,” Devrim admits to both husband and child. “How about we go look at the stuffed animals?” She blinked up at him quietly, meeting his gaze with a cocked head and mild interest. When they got to the aisle, it was quiet, void of any other shoppers. Devrim sets her down, acutely feeling the rush of cool air when she’s no longer pressed against his side. “Alright, darling,” He says, matching two of her steps with one of his own, “Let’s have a look see.”

Marc hovers, but eventually comes up beside Dev. The militiaman nudges him with a subtle bump of his hip when she starts running her hands over the soft, fuzzy creatures on display. They stay silent as she evaluates each one, careful as if they’re all living creatures. Eventually, after several moments of scrutinous evaluation, she picks up a small plush of a falcon. Both men smile at each other over her shoulder.

“Ah,” Devrim says, when she turns to them with it tucked in her arms. “A peregrine. They’re a rarity in the City, but I do see them from time to time in the European Dead Zone when I am away with the Militia. A wise choice, wouldn’t you say, Marc?”

Marc nods. “Is that your pick, sweetheart?”

Suraya looks at him and nods, and the tiniest quirk of a smile graces her face.

-/

“What are you going to name him?” Marc asks as they make their way to the checkout.

She shrugs. “Bird.”

“Bird?” Marc’s brows furrow, and Devrim shrugs. She’s six. Naming a plush a nondescript name is appropriate. Not to mention that she's never had one before.

“Bird it is,” Devrim says, as they make it to the queue. There’s several others in line ahead of them, but she’s far more preoccupied with rubbing the very soft material that makes up the bird in her arms, petting it with the hand that isn’t barred across its chest. He puts a hand on her head, and she looks up to him with a gaze that’s contemplative and hesitant, but she does not squirm to get out of his grasp.

The teenaged girl at the checkout is less concerned about the toy she's just yanked out of the girl's hands and more concerned with the end of her shift. The child jumps back and flinches, wide eyes looking every which direction. Neither of the men with her react, until she makes a sound that's almost an animalistic whimper.

“Suraya - oh,” One of them - a salt-and-peppered man with intense eyes, like a glacier - bends down and regards her fondly. “Excuse me,” He says, looking up to the check-out girl who flounders to respond under the man's very serious, deep gaze. “Our daughter would like her new toy back. We won't be needing a bag.”

“Our daughter?” The teenager sounds disappointed.

The other man with him, a slightly shorter, broader-shouldered man, smiles. “Yes,” He confirms for the clerk. “Our daughter.”

The little girl looks up at the light-eyed one, and then her dark eyes slide over to the working girl. She doesn't reach for the toy when it's held out to her. Instead, the cashier hands it to the man who offers it to the girl with an open palm, no grip. She takes it gingerly, then looks over at the checkout girl, massively relieved.

“Alright darling,” The other man says, “How about we go home and you can show Bird around?”

The girl nods, and they depart. The cashier is pissed that almost every hot man she meets in this job has a kid or is taken. She totally should have taken that job at the ice cream shoppe.


	11. a new nana

"Alright, darling,” Marc drops her onto the bed. “Today is the day.”

She nods, bashfully.

“No need to be nervous,” he reminds her, while she fidgets in her terry-cloth robe and swings her legs over the edge of her bed. “Dev and I will be with you the whole time.”

“Promise?”

“Promise, Suraya.” He throws open her little closet. “Now then, we have to dress nicely. What do you think?”

“Do I have to wear a dress?” She asks, frowning as she mentions the girlish attire.

“You probably should,” He concedes, sounding mournful on her behalf.

She shrugs. “Guess so.” It's Suraya-speak for no, but she's not feeling like she gets much of a choice in the matter.

Marc sighs. “Why don't you come over here and show me your favorite outfit, and we'll see what Dev thinks?”

That gets her to trudge over to his side and carefully select a tunic-like top in pale purple. Suraya seems to like purples and reds. She looks up at him for approval, brown eyes wide and concerned that she's chosen wrong.

He indulges her with a wink. “If you ask me, we could pair these with some nice slacks and be in business. You get dressed and I'll get Dev. Deal?”

“Deal.”

When Marc returns with her other father in tow, Suraya is fighting to get the shirt over her head, tangled in the excess of fabric. Dev steps around Marc to set her to rights. Her smile when she meets his coldwater blue gaze is enough to bring Marc's hand over his heart. They are just too cute, he thinks. She is so absolutely smitten with him and it is beyond adorable.

“Do I look okay,” She asks the taller of her parents, fingers curling under the low edge of her tunic. “I like this top,” She offers by explanation, shifting in anxiety as she waits for his decision.

“You look beautiful, Suraya,” Marc nods to her as Devrim speaks, “As usual.” Her cheeks darken, and Devrim pats her head. “Let's brush that hair of yours, and we'll be ready to go.” Marc already has the brush in his hand, but it's Devrim who sits on the bed and holds his hand out for it. “Shall I braid your hair or would you rather leave it down?”

She shrugs.

“Braid,” Marc suggests, knowing for fact that Suraya likes it when they brush and braid her hair. She likes quiet attention. “It'll keep her from looking messy.”

“I'm not worried about that,” Devrim says gently, but does as instructed when their girl sits down in front of him. “Alright love, here we go.”

The number of videos they watched to learn how to braid her hair was embarrassing. However, it had to be done, as they had learned. Her frizzy curls were a magnet for tangles, and though she did not put up a fuss about her hair being brushed, they couldn't stand the idea of her constantly being tortured with detangling. They couldn't stand the idea of her suffering any pain at all, really.

It has been four months now since she's been with them. They knew each other well enough, could easily read her tells and she them. She was doing better, but many new situations were setbacks, to include this one. They had talked to her about it, let her know that it would be a brief visit, but stressed that if she were overwhelmed, telling them she wanted to go home was allowed. Encouraged, even. She was rewarded for making her needs known, and it was getting a bit better.

However, Marc knew - and reminded Devrim - that this  _his_  mother. Suraya would do anything for Dev, to make him happy, to win his favor. And Marc just didn't think that any amount of talking to the Kay matriarch beforehand would knock down her intensity to a level Suraya could handle. Nothing against her, she was just… enthusiastic. Marc enjoyed his in-law’s company. It was simply a factor to heavily consider that Suraya would push past her breaking point to please Devrim, and that might hurt more than help.

-/

It's very clear to Marc, from the second Devrim's mother opens the door to the very luxurious Kay family home, that Suraya is overwhelmed. Marc and Dev lived rather minimalistically, and Suraya fit into that niche right along with them. She's very quiet, per usual, but very polite, and even allows Devrim's mother to hug her. Marc shoots Devrim a look that says something like 'remember what I said,’ when Suraya grips the back of Marc's leg afterward instead of choosing Devrim to alleviate her anxieties like she usually would. There's a near silent sigh when his mother ushers them into the home and Suraya purposely lingers to watch her parents to doff their shoes before carefully untying her own.

Marc puts a hand on her head before offering his arms to her. She accepts and the flit of jealousy that he sees in his husband's gaze is surprising. However, it's blinked away before Suraya catches wind - for which Marc is incredibly grateful, it would crush her - and instead Marc sees the unease wash over his husband. He had told Dev it might be too soon. They barely know what they're working with, sometimes. She doesn’t know her own limits until she’s well beyond them.

The second she finally relaxes into the cushions of one of the massive couches in the sitting room, Devrim's mother swoops in and begins chattering to her very animatedly. There are a great deal of questions being asked - how old are you, favorite color, when is your birthday, what do you do for fun, and so on - and of course this just so happens to occur when Devrim excuses himself to get a drink from the kitchen on the other side of the house. Surely he needs to see this, Marc thinks, but the fates had other ideas.

Suraya is very careful about answering each question, but her cheeks are growing pink and hot with each second of scrutiny. Nana - as she's been instructed to call Devrim's mother - hums and digests every answer in a way that makes her feel like she's being tested, though that isn’t actually her intent. Marc pulls the girl onto his lap when he notices her fingers clench and unclench into fists that are pressed hard into the couch.

“Stop that, Marc, she’s a big girl. Aren’t you?” Nana says, directly to her. She’s smiling widely. Almost too widely.

“Guess so,” She agrees, but Marc wraps his hands around her middle and holds her there, anyway. Her hands cover his, a silent show of her approval. Devrim looks over at Marc, who has a very serious look on his face, when he re-enters the room.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by the matriarch of the Kay family. “What’s wrong?”

Suraya freezes, and Marc moves one hand to cover both of hers. “Nothing is wrong, Mom,” Marc offers easily. He blinks once, pointedly, at Devrim. Wills him to read between the lines. “You’ve asked her a lot of questions, and I think she’d like a break.”

“Oh, she’s fine.” She tuts. “You don’t need to coddle her.”

“Mother.” Devrim interrupts, sounding stern. “A word, please.”  The two of them stand and leave the room, his mother murmuring under her breath.

A rush of words tumbles from Suraya’s mouth, and she looks very concerned, eyes growing glassy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

Marc shakes his head and pulls her against his chest. “Hush. You’re fine. Your Nana is very excited about having a grandchild, but Dev and I don’t want her to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m okay.”

“You are,” He agrees outwardly, though internally he disagrees very much with her statement. “But, we’re your dads and if we think something could upset you, we won’t let it continue.”

“She asks lots of questions,” Suraya admits. “Too many.”

“She did that when I met her. She just wants to know about you, as much as possible,” Marc informs her. “She means well, I promise.”

Suraya nods, and leans against her dad’s chest. “Never had a Nana,” She admits. “Just me an’ Mama, before and she...” That line of thought is clearly too much for her. Marc doesn't press, just hugs her tight. A moment later, she confides, “It's nice to be wanted.”

“Ah,” Marc agrees. “It is, isn’t it?” He looks over at the doorway to the kitchen, where his mother in law is covering her mouth, and Dev is looking at them both with a soft smile. “I promise you this, my dearest: we want you in our lives very much. All of us.”

“Me too,” She whispers. “I like my life now.”

“Good,” Devrim says, drawing her gaze as he leans down to pluck her off Marc’s lap. “Because I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.” She giggles when Devrim’s beard scratches her cheek, but she accepts the kiss he drops on her forehead anyway.

Nana puts a hand over her heart and drops into the seat beside Marc to watch as Devrim coaxes her back to comfort seemingly without effort. It’s hard to miss the way Suraya regards him so fond and openly. “Are they always this adorable?” She asks in a stage whisper. Marc does not comment on the distance between them now, his mother in law staying beside him instead of crowding her son and Suraya on the couch running parallel to the one they currently occupied. Devrim drew some clear lines, apparently.

Marc nods, but addresses the room. “Dev fell for her straight away.”

Father and daughter blink over at him. From a distance - purely aesthetically, it’s clear that they are not related. Her skin is ten shades too dark, her hair thicker and naturally curlier than anything either of their genetics could produce and no braid can hide it. Her eyes are a dark shade of brown compared to the Kay family’s pale shades of blue. But looking closely, at the way Suraya tucks herself into him, the way her eyes light up when he speaks to her, the way her fingers curl over his hand - it’s clear that they are family beyond any shadow of a doubt.

“Do tell,” Devrim’s mother says softly. “Devrim gave me the abbreviated version, you know how he is.”

“I do,” Marc agrees. “We had gone - well, we told you about the little boy they’d gotten as a recent intake.”

Suraya’s back straightens, and her eyes focus intently on Marc’s face, listening carefully. She hasn’t heard this story from her new parents’ side, only knows what she knows.

Devrim’s mother encourages Marc to continue and he laughs. “I couldn’t even get Dev to look at him. He was too busy watching a little girl in the courtyard, feeding the birds.” His dark eyes find Suraya, and he nods when Dev smiles down at her. “I gave the baby back to the first worker I could find, and when I came back, Dev was still watching her.” He tells Suraya now, “He couldn’t take his eyes off you, not even for a second. When I suggested we go say hello to you, I’d never seen him so flustered in his life. He wanted to make a good impression.”

“I felt you looking at me,” Suraya hedges quietly, looking up to Devrim. “No one ever looked at me like that. Like I was different. Special.”

Devrim nods at that, hugging her close. “You are, my darling girl. Make no mistake.” She returns it tightly, face pressed into his chest, his hand cradling her head.

His mother smiles. “So, finish the story, Marc! How did you know?”

“How could we not,” Marc throws back. “She told us to adopt the little boy. It reminded me of something Dev always says: ‘What is right is never easy.’”

Suraya turns her head out toward them. “I didn’t want you to,” She says, honestly. “But he’s who you came for. I didn’t wanna mess up your plans.”

“Our plans we already messed up,” Marc informs her. “You were ours before we knew your name.”

Wide eyes look between her fathers for confirmation. “Really?”

Devrim’s mother smiles. “If there’s one thing I know about my boys, the second they know, they know.” Suraya looks at her, but she’s regarding Devrim now. “She’d have your father wrapped around her finger, just like she’s got you.” Devrim grumbles, but his mother laughs.

Suraya blushes as Devrim finally agrees. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“I have no doubt. He’d be proud of you both,” She informs them, and Suraya hugs Dev tight when she feels him straighten under the praise. She can tell this is important to him. “You’ll raise her right. She’ll make our family proud.”

Suraya takes the words to heart.


	12. homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a follow-up to chapter 4, in which Devrim is called away with the City militia.

They arrive early. Marc is calm, tranquil. Happy. Devrim is feeling jittery. Antsy. He can't remember ever feeling like this, except one time. The first time he'd met her. He doesn't know why this feels like such a big deal, he tells himself. It isn't.

But it is.

It's a big deal because this is the first time he- he's going to see her in person, in months. He bins the other thought. He can't think about that now, he tries to convince himself, but it's all he can think about. All he’s been able to think about since that day.

This is the first time he's going to see her since she's acknowledged him as her father. Her Daddy.

It's enough to make his palms sweat. What if she just said it out of-

“Your ears are pink, Dev. Calm down. You have nothing to worry about.” Marc, for all his infinite wisdom, puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes tight. Grounds him. “I'll go in and get her.”

Three minutes, it takes. Three minutes for Devrim to convince himself that he's made it into a big deal and it isn't. That when Marc said she will still likely call him Dev from time to time, that it might have been a one time thing. That he can't get too emotional about it, because hurting her would hurt him worse than this. By the time Marc exits the school, her small bag slung over his shoulder, Devrim has convinced himself that she's outgrown needing him to read her stories, tuck her in at night; That she’s grown up and he’s missed it while he’s been away.

He doesn't realize how ridiculous he's being until his eyes lock on hers, watching her demeanor change from reserved to shock. She stands ramrod straight, speechless. Her eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them.

“Hello, Suraya,” He says, when it’s clear she’s not able to say a word. He crouches down to her level, inhales, and says, “I missed y-”

She tackles him, nearly throwing him off balance when her arms wrap around his neck and she tucks her face into his collar. “Daddy,” She cries, repeating, “Daddy, Daddy,” over and over. Marc gives him a look over his shoulder that says, ‘see? Nothing to worry about.’ She pulls back to look at him, watery eyes seemingly trying to memorize his face. “You're here,” She chirps quietly, voice wobbly and child-like, trying so hard to smile.

“Yes,” Devrim comfirms, rocking her. His heart is so very, very full. “Daddy’s home now. It’s alright.”


	13. separation anxiety redux

She doesn't want to fall asleep. Marc can see it in her tense posture, the way her eyelids flutter and fall before she shakes herself violently to keep alert. Devrim himself is out like a light, one arm around her, the two of them snuggled up on the couch while Marc watches from the recliner nearby.

He can tell it's going to be one of those nights.

The fourth or fifth time she jerks violently awake, Devrim inhales deep and cards his fingers through her hair. “Come on, sweetheart,” He says, voice sleep rough. “Time for bed.”

Marc prepared for this, had considered how it would be. Suraya, as anticipated, goes to bed without any argument, though she hugs them both for a bit longer than usual. She has her tells, and Marc's had time to learn them. It isn't all that late, but Devrim is always tired the first day or two after coming home from his tours of duty, the adrenaline wearing off and the comfort of home allowing him to completely relax.

It's a half hour later when Suraya's breathing evens out, and even still, Devrim finishes reading the short story to her. Marc smiles at him, heart clenching when his husband kisses her forehead and whispers how much he loves her against her temple. He's grateful they have the weekend together - he'd planned on keeping her from school the day after Devrim came home for sake of adjustment, but this situation was far more ideal.

It's later than Marc thought it would be, when she wakes him up. He's managed to sleep a little himself, and Devrim is dead weight beside him.

Good, he thinks. No need to trouble his tired man, if they can help it. He'd rather discuss it with Devrim in the morning.

Marc creeps down the hall and slips into her room, opening the door to enter then closing her door behind him. She always looks embarrassed and scared, at first, but completely melts down when he hugs her close. It takes a long time to console her, and even longer for her to be able to speak.

“I'm sorry,” She says, when her sobs and his shushing subsides, ineffectively babbling, “Didn't wanna, thought it would stop-”

“It's all right,” Marc reminds her. “You're alright, it just takes a second for it all to sink in. Your Daddy is asleep in the other room. Want to go check on him with me?”

She nods. He picks her up and balances her on his hip while they walk, her head on his shoulder. She's still sniffling quietly, but remains silent. He props open the door to his and Devrim's sleeping accommodations, the sniper on his back, stretched out languorously. It's almost comical to see the normally reserved man sleeping that way, but to Suraya it's relief, and she pushes her face into his collarbone so hard it hurts. She starts crying again, attempting to hold her breaths to stay quiet. She shouldn't be so upset. There's no reason to be.

“Suraya,” Marc whispers to her, taking her back into the hall and downstairs to their family room. “It's alright.”

“I don't wanna wake him up,” She gasps out, in a pinched child's whine. “He'll be sad.”

“He will,” Her father agrees, “Because he loves you very, very much.”

“I know,” She replies, and bawls.

Devrim finds them on the recliner, hours later, the quiet drone of the morning news being talked over in a combination of warm, honeyed tenor and jagged, ashy mezzo-soprano.

He opens his mouth to speak, but-

His husband regards him with dark, somber eyes, and the slightest shake of his head. Their daughter sniffles and curls further into him and Marc tucks the blanket draped over them both around her snuggly. Devrim focuses, ears straining to hear what's being said.

“Everyone leaves,” Suraya says against Marc's chest, seemingly out of breath. He rubs circles into her back over the blanket.

“Ah, but Devrim came back, remember?”

There's nothing but ragged, wet breathing punctuated with gasps for several moments. “Don't wanna lose him, too,” She finally breathes out. Marc can't recall how many times she's told him this. “Can't lose anyone else.”

He doesn't look to Devrim, isn't sure he'll stay composed if Devrim isn't. “If there's one thing both your fathers are good at, it's surviving. We aren't going anywhere. No force of man or god or otherwise will keep us from you.”

Little Suraya takes time before answering. “I know,” She says softly. She wants to believe it's the truth, but her mind keeps racing and her heart is working into overdrive, thumping loudly in her ears. “I'm just... scared.”

Marc knows, can feel Devrim's gaze on him, that his husband is watching. Observing with his eagle-eyes, collecting every detail. Cataloguing each strained breath and the way he rocks her when she trembles. That he's listening to each uttered syllable of comfort and monitoring its reaction.

But Marc is no fool, and he knows, once Suraya finally, finally falls asleep - and she will, he can feel her body overriding her mind's anxiety, exhaustion creeping over her - Devrim will want to know everything. That he will blame himself.

That he'll be very, very upset to have missed her breakthroughs and even more so to have caused a large share of her breakdowns. That Devrim will want to know every moonlight confession she's made to him about the mother who didn't want her, who eventually threw her life away in front of her child and left that same child on the streets, and about the orphanage that was better than what she'd known, but that's only because all she knew was suffering or close to it.

Marc will hurt him, and Suraya too, through the bond they've forged in his absence. They already have, judging by his rigid stance on the bottom step of the staircase.

Her breathing eases and her eyes droop, but Marc doesn't move until she begins drooling on his shirt, her entire body limp against him. Only then does he turn to his spouse.

The question on Devrim's lips is out before he can help himself. “How long have you been-”

“We have a few hours before she'll wake again,” Marc says instead, rising with her cradled against his chest. His voice is neither angry nor pleasant, his tone firm and unaccepting of any argument. “Make us a cuppa and meet me upstairs.”

Devrim take his time. He moves silently with both mugs tucked in hand, depositing Marc's on the bedside table closest to the door before moving to his own side and sitting on the edge. Between them, Suraya sleeps soundly, tucked beneath their blankets.

“She's usually dead to the world for at least an hour or two,” Marc offers, “But that one was rougher than usual. We'll probably have to wake her up before too long.”

Devrim nods, wrapping his hands around his mug. “How long have you been up with her?”

“A while.”

“Marc-”

“I heard her around two. We dozed a bit downstairs.”

Devrim seethes. “Four bloody hours-”

“Calm down. You were exhausted, and she was afraid of upsetting you, anyway. If I had woke you, she'd have held back.”

Blue eyes blink widely at him. “She - what?”

“She doesn't desire to upset you, love. She's missed you terribly.” Marc smiles down at her, watches her back rise and fall from where she sleeps between them on her tummy. “She has separation anxiety. All last night she clung to you. I knew it was going to be a horrible night for her the second she attempted to resist falling asleep.”

Devrim frowns. “I hadn't noticed.”

“You haven't been here.” Marc sighs. “I don't mean it nastily, either, so don't take it that way. She and I got some time to bond. We needed it. Honestly, I had hoped to spare you this, for the first bit.”

She sighs and rolls over, fingers curling on the edges of the blanket. Unaware that her movement commands the attention of both men around her, that her sigh gives them both pause. She's small for a six year old. Devrim watches a frown cover her features for a moment before her face relaxes and falls blank once more.

The militiaman strokes her fingers gently. She doesn't stir. “Nothing about this has been easy for you, has it?” He finally asks.

“No,” Marc admits. “But I feel less like second fiddle to you and more like we're on even ground, when it comes to her. I'm sorry,” He continues. “I know that sounds horrible, but… I just - she loves you so much, Devrim. You hang the sun and stars in her sky.” Devrim also enjoys his husband's metaphors and imagery. “She doesn't love me, not like that. And that's okay,” Marc says earnestly. “She loves me in a different way than she loves you, because we had to learn about each other instead of knowing from the get-go. Now, I don't know, it's just - we're closer. I feel like she's ours now. I don't know if I really completely felt that way before.”

Devrim nods, and Marc gives him time to process. He's just dished out quite a bit of information.

“Leaving you was horrible enough,” Devrim tells him, reaching over the small lump of child between them and resting a hand on Marc's knee. “But, both of you? I knew it would be horrific. For all of us.” He swallows hard. “When I had called you, to see her so at ease with you was a blessing. I was not worried, per se, but I knew she was comfortable with me a bit more so than she'd been with you. Kindred spirits, she and I.”

“I never would have guessed,” Marc quips, covering and squeezing Devrim's hand with his own.

“Yes, well,” Devrim quirks his lips in a thin smile before his eyes drift down to the child curled between them. He sighs. “She grew.”

Marc blinks. “Seriously? You can tell? It was barely a centimeter.”

“Even so,” Devrim tuts. “And she needs a haircut.”

“She wants to grow it out. Something about the braid not being long enough when we put her hair up.”

Devrim chuckles at that. “Becoming a bit more vocal, is she?”

“Getting there,” Marc agrees. “Having us both around will be good. She misses helping you cook. We've both been suffering with mine. She's a very harsh critic of both my abilities and the take away I provide, I'll have you know.”

In reply, Devrim laughs, but Marc knows his husband is too intelligent to miss the darkness in his gaze. Right now, they can’t discuss the rest. Dev needs to be brought up to speed, but more than anything right now, they need to enjoy these quiet moments, to choose happiness and laughter and joy. If not for themselves, then for the child between them who opens up a little bit more every day. To build her up, help her face her fears, and turn her to look forward to the future.


	14. crossroads

“I know I have to,” She tells him. “It’s not the right time, but Hideo won’t stop, and I know-”

His eyes remain closed for a beat or two, and when he opens them, they’re bloodshot and glassy. “I know,” He tells her. “Come here.”

She steps into his embrace, both of them shaking with the weight of emotions they do their best to hide away. “I love you,” She tells him fiercely. “I can’t have you both throw everything away for me.”

Devrim holds her out at arms length, and does nothing to abate his tears. “We’re not throwing anything away.”

“What about the family legacy?” She answers back, with a sniffle and a sad laugh. “That’s important, Dev. It’s all you ever talk about, when I mess up. And I mess up a lot.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though,” She says. “Don’t shake your head at me. I won’t ruin our family’s name.”

Shock freezes him to the spot. His voice quivers. “What? What are you saying?”

A step at the top of the stairs creaks, and Suraya knows Marc is listening. He always is. “Marc - Dad and I agreed. No one has to know I’m related. I’ve been a Hawthorne my whole life,” She tells him. “I don’t want what I do to come back on you guys. Tell them you took me in. That I’m a stray-”

“That’s not how it works. You’re ours, Suraya. We picked you.”

She nods. “Marc already had one of his contacts scramble things with City admin. There’s nothing official that they can hold you to.”

“I don’t want that,” He tells her.

“Me either.”

“But-”

She smiles. “I would do anything for you two, you know? We’re family. And family protects each other.”

“When did you grow up,” He asks her, shaking his head “I feel like yesterday you were toting around that stuffed bird and - and now,” He swallows thickly. “I don’t want you to go,” He tells her. “I know you have to, I know you want to see what’s out there, Suraya. But it isn’t safe.”

“I can handle myself. My dads taught me how,” She reminds him.

Devrim isn’t convinced. “You’re not ready.”

“I don’t really have a choice,” She says. “It was only a matter of time.”

“Let us come with you.”

“No.” Her eyes narrow. “I’m serious. I will run away. Don’t make me run away. Please.”

He pulls her in again, hugging her close. “I won’t. I just don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t lose me,” She vows. “I’ll stay close. I promised.” Her face tucks into the side of his collar. They’re both crying now, adrenaline and anguish and grief overwhelming.

“My darling girl,” He breathes, placing his palm on the back of her head. “My precious daughter.” She squeezes him tight. “You have everything you need?”

She nods. “Yeah. We went over it ten times.”

“Once more.”

“Devrim,” Marc’s voice carries, as he joins them at the door. Steady, grounding. The voice of reason. “She’s ready.”

He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I know - I just -”

“Dad,” She says, reaching around Devrim to embrace Marc. “Take care of him, okay? We both know you’re secretly the tough one.”

Marc sniffles, only once. “I’ll keep him in line. Don’t worry.”

“I love you,” He tells her.

“I love you, too, Dad.” His lip trembles, and he blinks away a few renegade tears, but it’s nothing by comparison to the sobbing mess that is his husband.

Suraya dips her head. “I have to go,” She tells him. Her hands drop to his, squeezing tight. “I’ll check in when I can.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” She agrees. “And I won’t go further than ten miles from the wall, like we agreed, I have my radio and your frequencies and-” She tackles him in a hug that’s reminiscent of one she’d given him long, long ago, when she was barely as tall as his waist. “I love you, Daddy.”

His lip trembles and curls as he rocks her in an embrace. “I love you, Suraya. More than anything.”

As quick as it happens, it’s done. She spares them a final glance, turns on her heel, and pulls her hood over her head. It’s not yet dawn, and the streets are dark. She doesn’t turn back, afraid that she’ll never go if she sees them standing in the doorway, watching her until she fades out of sight. That watching her fathers mourn her leaving will hurt her more than what drives her to leave in the first place.

She takes a deep breath. It’s a big world out there, beyond the walls. She’ll find what she’s looking for - her own way. Maybe even make them proud in the process. The thought makes her smile.

That sounds like a good place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now is probably a good time to remind everyone that I post these out of order and that this isn't the end.


	15. lost and found

She slips carefully between people. They were just here. Where did they go?

Suraya has never been to a festival like this before. The Dawning celebration is bright and alive and cold air and snowflakes and exciting. There were too many people around, but she'd gotten a little better at handling large crowds. Especially with her parents nearby. She had paused to look up at the glowing blue-glass crystal hanging between the Traveler and the Tower atop the wall. When she looked back, Marc and Devrim were gone.

The crowd is too dense for her to make any real progress in searching for them, the pushing and pulling around people - people she didn't know, didn't trust - making tendrils of anxiety creep in. She took a deep breath. Knowing them, they'd know she was gone by now. They would worry, too. She didn't want to make it worse by acting like a baby now.

The crowd presses her forward, and she manages to find some free space before a large street crossing. A tall, wide-shouldered man wearing gray fatigues stands with on the corner with a large gun. She recognizes the emblem on his chest.

He only looks down when she tugs at the side of his pant-leg, her quiet calls not reaching him.

“'Scuse me,” She says, when he finally sees her. “Are you Militia?”

He nods.

Her lip curls in a snarl when he goes back to watching the crowds. “Hey!” She calls, louder.

The man sighs. “What, kid?”

“I can't find my dads,” She says. “Can you help me?”

“FOTC would be better for that,” He answers. “We're just ancillary.”

Suraya knows. Her father had worked late the night before, responsible for security detail during a fireworks show that lit the underbelly of the Traveler in shades of blue and gold. She and Marc watched it from a rooftop away from the loud noise and rowdy crowds. She'd enjoyed it, though she'd have had more fun with both parents present.

“I want you to help me,” She says, when he signals to the officers across the way. Biting back her panic at his look of aggravation, she adds, “Please.”

The FOTC officer is a woman. She doesn't look mean, per se, but she does look a touch exasperated. “Another kid lost, huh?” She asks the militiaman.

“Appears so.”

She drops to the girl's level, taking a knee. She puts a gentle hand on each of Suraya's shoulders. The girl flinches hard and steps back. “I'll help you find your family,” The officer tells her. She withdraws her hands but watches, concerned. “What's your name?”

Suraya shakes her head. “I want the Militia officer to help me. Please.”

“Honey-”

“My Dad is Militia,” She tells the woman. “He’s special ops.”

“Erikson,” The officer says, “She tell you that part?”

He isn't listening, back to scanning the crowd.

She scoffs. “Ey! Meathead!” That draws his attention. He bristles. “The kid's dad is Militia. Says he's some rifle-toting madman like you.” Suraya doesn’t pay attention to the wink she gives him. “Might belong to someone important you shouldn’t piss off.”

“I’m sure he is. She's just being stubborn,” He replies. “I'm supposed to make sure no one gets unruly. Your job is dealing with the crying rugrats.”

Suraya growls, marching the three steps over to the young militia scout. “I'm Suraya Hawthorne,” She bellows. Before continuing, she takes a deep breath. “My dad's name is Devrim Kay and he's gonna be mad if you don't help me.”

Two sets of eyes blink at her.

“Erikson-”

“I know, I know.” He drops to a knee beside the other officer. “Your dad is the Gentleman Sniper?”

“Yes,” She says, chest puffed up with pride. Her deadpan glare is close copy of the man she speaks of. “Now will you help me?”

The officer laughs at the dumbfounded nod of her counterpart. “I almost wish I could tag along. That face is priceless!”

Erikson growls. “Shut up. He works with my CO.”

The eight year old girl smiles at the FOTC officer as the man offers her a hand. “Thanks,” She says, waving once as they leave.

-/

Suraya makes short work of Erikson and his squad. By the time one very frantic combination of Marc and Devrim set eyes on her nearly an hour later - the longest hour of their lives to date - Suraya is sitting on a bench, feeding pieces of fried dough to pigeons. Three very green officers fuss and fawn over her.

Marc laughs in relief at her child's glower. She is clearly fed up, but also fine.

Her eyes dart up to them as they approach and she shoves the paper housing the birds’ meal to the side. Devrim's near sprint to her side is to be expected, Marc thinks. He'd thought for sure his husband was going to have a coronary if it had taken much longer for them to locate her. Marc, while worried, apparently fared better in these sorts of crises.

Suraya smiles shyly at her father, whom immediately wraps her up in a hug. The low-ranked squad looks rather perturbed at the sight of one of their higher-ups dressed in street clothes and hoisting his child to sit at his hip, looking visibly rattled. He speaks to her quietly, she puts hands on both his cheeks when she responds. When he regards them, they straighten to attention. Devrim's eyes are cool and relieved.

“You have my thanks,” He says. “All of you.”

They nod, preening under the praise.

Suraya whispers something into his ear, shielding her mouth with a hand. Devrim nods. “Erikson,” He says. His voice is silky and low.

The man gulps. “Yessir?”

Sharp eyes glance down at his daughter before looking the other man's way. “Suraya says you took point in assisting her. I won't forget that.”

“She found me, sir,” He answers, trying not to sweat under the scrutiny. “She's one helluva kid.”

“That she is,” He agrees. “Regardless. I am in your debt.”

Suraya gives Erikson a cheeky smile over Devrim's shoulder as they part ways. Somehow, the young militiaman feels like this won't be the last he sees of her.

... It isn't. Two decades later, when he and his battered, frightened squad of new recruits is being chased by War Hounds outside the city’s gate, three shots ring out. She drops them without emptying her clip. They look hesitant to trust her, until he extends a hand to shake her own.

“This,” He says, exchanging a smirk with her, “Is Suraya Hawthorne. Her dad’s Militia. We can trust her.”

Erikson himself becomes one of Hawthorne’s top scouts during the war, second only to Devrim himself.


	16. red sauce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a late kind-of Crimson Days related one! I didn't forget about this story, I promise.
> 
> I have a list of ideas I pull from to write these, but if there's anything you're interested to see or want me to write about with these three, let me know!

Marc is halfway through placing the call to Dev's favorite restaurant when he realizes that there's going to be a problem.

Suraya. What are they going to do with Suraya?

He and Devrim almost always go away for the weekend. It's their tradition. They can't take a child on their romantic getaway. The whole idea is to get away from -

The sound of the refrigerator opening and closes scares him half to death. He jumps. A mop of frizzy dark hair pulls back, closing the door quietly. There's a juice box in her hand.

“Sorry,” She says, quietly. Her dark eyes look him over and rest on the floor. It’s an improvement, even if she doesn’t maintain eye contact. She wiggles her sock-clad toes against the tiled floor. “I was thirsty. Didn't mean to scare ya.”

Marc exhales all his frantic startled energy in one go. “You're fine, sweetheart,” He says, and immediately feels guilty when she gives him the tiniest peek of a smile and heads back to the short table in Devrim's office that's become her homework station.

He looks down at his handheld. Sighs. Dials a different number.

-/

“You know I'll be happy to take her so you two can get some time alone. For Light's sake, you boys deserve it.”

“She probably won't be, though. She doesn't do well-”

“Marcus. Relax.”

“But-”

“If she has a bad weekend, she has a bad weekend. You can't shelter her forever.”

“... I know.”

“Make your plans. I can handle a child. I did raise your husband, if you recall.”

“I just worry.”

The voice on the other end of the line softens. “I’m aware. Worry-warts, the both of you. Prepare, and she'll be just fine. I'll keep her busy.”

-/

She reacts like they expected when she's told of their arrangements. Withdrew immediately, never argued, and saw herself to her bedroom without supper, much like when Devrim informed her he'd be going away with the Militia. Devrim and Marc took turns checking on her - aware that despite her lack of response she laid awake - through the night. However, unlike before, they did not pull her from her bed and she did not make a sound.

The following morning, she dragged herself to the table for breakfast, all red-rimmed eyes and a sullen curl to her lip that had Devrim squeezing Marc’s thigh under the table. They had agreed that while she deserved some coddling, some things she needed space to figure out and overcome. This debacle was one of them, painful as it may be for them all.

She looks down into her eggs and sighs, forcing herself to eat slowly, despite her rumbling belly. She's always hungry, lately. Devrim waits until Marc’s back is turned to slip her some bacon off his plate. She looks at it, them him, and away. He pretends to be disinterested while she eats it, though it feels like a crime to ignore her bleary eyes and wobbling lip at the speck of special attention thrown her way.

She falls asleep on the couch half an hour later.

Marc scoffs when Devrim cradles her against his chest when she twitches and moans, but there’s nothing behind it; no way either of them would have ignored her. She’s just a babe. Realistic expectations include setbacks. He too relents, scooting close to them on the couch, the three of them cuddled together through mid afternoon.

It’s after a light dinner, when Suraya is more awake than she’s been all day that the she asks, “You’ll come back, right?” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, rocking side to side nervously.

“Yes. We’ll be gone for two nights, my dear,” Devrim says. His eyes are gentle and kind and true. “Then straight back to you.”

“I'll miss you,” She blurts, then flushes hotly and scampers away.

Both fathers look at each other for confirmation before following after her. She cannot always run. They have to be better about being firm with her.

Their girl is sitting on the windowsill in her bedroom, looking out at the darkening sky. As always, she is silent, pensive. On her lap, clenched between an iron grip is Bird, the plush falcon. When they cross the threshold to her room she looks at them, then away.

Marc is the one who calls her over to them. Devrim backs him up. She listens.

It boils down to the same thing it always does.

“The people I love leave me. And they don't come back.”

“We will,” Both men promise her. “Trust us.”

“I want to,” She whispers back, kicking her feet as they dangle off the bed, one parent on either side of her. She squeezes their hands - she's got her fingers laced with one of each of theirs - and sniffles just once. “But I'm scared.”

“It's okay to be scared,” Marc tells her. “We'll show you there's nothing to be afraid of.”

She looks at him then, dark, patient eyes and a mouth curved in an understanding smile. Devrim shifts beside her, and she doesn't need to see him to know he's nodding his agreement. They draw her in for a hug that's more like being sandwiched between them.

After a few moments of that, she finds the courage to ask, “Who's gonna stay with me?”

Devrim smiles, and Marc practically beams at her. She likes that they know when she's trying. It's nice.

“We talked to your Nana,” Marc says. “Thought it would be best if you stayed with family.”

“She told us,” Devrim strokes the top of her head in a soothing gesture, “That she'd be happy to come here, or you could go to her. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

Suraya bites her lip. “Can I think about it?”

-/

In the end, Suraya is dropped off at the Kay family's estate, a bag in tow, and Bird tucked securely under one arm. Devrim's mother holds him very carefully - as if he's a real bird - while she says her goodbyes.

The child holds it together until her fathers are out of sight, and then the tears overwhelm her. Nana simply tuts and plucks the girl up into her arms, shushing and rocking her until she cries it all out. She'd always hoped for a girl, and by sheer luck, this one was still teeny enough to hold in her arms.

-/

Devrim has his mother's eyes, Suraya thinks. That same freshwater blue that's bright and aware. Where their first few meetings were overwhelming, Nana reads her far better now. She is content to let Suraya help make dinner and cookies, and is not upset if she flinches or twitches away at a surprise bout of affection.

And her Nana is  _very_ affectionate. According to her, all nanas are supposed to be.

It's like Devrim, but times a million, she decides. The cuddles are pretty good, though. Nana reads to her with a pretty lilt to her voice, the two of them snuggled up on what is a very big bed in Suraya's appointed bedroom. When that doesn't make her sleepy, she talks quietly about Devrim when he was younger, the crackly aged quality to her voice making it easy for the girl to hear her grandmother's pride.

She refers to him as 'my darling boy’ or 'my dear Devrim.’ Suraya dozes off thinking about how Devrim refers to her the exact same way. It makes her feel warm inside.

Surprisingly enough, she sleeps through the night.

-/

On their Saturday together, Nana takes her to the market district and has her help select items for cooking dinner. The market itself is booming and loud, overly busy with shoppers looking for gifts for their chosen bonds.

Suraya grips her hand tightly, and is mindful to stay focused in the marketplace. Beside her, the matriarch is posed and cool, her bartering skills a cut above the rest. She is cold as ice and walks away from several vendors who dare to charge her too much.

“They try to take advantage of a kindly old woman, Suraya,” Nana imparts. “They take advantage of any weakness they see. Do not ever let them see you sweat in a negotiation. Always remember that you can be kind and firm, all at once.”

The girl watches carefully as a particularly smooth vendor attempts to swindle them, only to find himself losing out on profits. Cut throat, her Nana is. She sees through the man's misleading advertisements, knows the species of tomato he's selling is not the hybrid he claims it to be. Afterward, Nana winks as she hands her an orange that the vendor throws in for being kind enough not to turn him in for his transgression

“Your father or grandfather would have reported that man,” Nana says, when they take a seat on a bench. She smooths a fly-away strand of hair from Suraya's face.

“So why didn't you?” Suraya asks.

Nana laughs. “Darling, we're all trying to survive. If I shut him down, what about his family? His children? His wife was pregnant not long ago.”

“But-”

“What he did was not fair, my dear. He should be an honest man, but the Factions make it hard for independent vendors to compete. Never be afraid to fight for what is fair and right, Suraya. However, you musn't be blind to the reasons why your others do not. Good or bad.”

The girl nods, wringing her hands. “Good people do bad things, sometimes,” She says.

“Yes,” Nana agrees. “Sometimes, bad things must be done for the greater good.” She looks at her granddaughter carefully. Her azure gaze is kind and serious. “You understand, don't you?”

“I do,” Suraya agrees quietly. “Used'ta take food when I was hungry,” She admits, “Mama didn't remember to feed me much and I had no money.”

The Matriarch nods, casting her cold gaze away. Marc and Devrim called her late one evening, to discuss their child's… interesting past. The remnants of her concern must show on her face when she looks back, because Suraya pats the wrinkled hand gripping their shopping basket.

“Daddy was mad when I told him, too,” She says, her voice matter-of-fact though child-like in tone. “He thought I couldn't hear him, but he was really loud.”

“You understand,” She says carefully, “That your Daddy was not mad at you, yes?”

“He's mad at Mama,” Nana nods encouragingly, holding her dark gaze as she continues. “Like I used to be. ‘M not, anymore.”

“I'm not mad at her, either. I wish she had given you more,” She tells Suraya, “And that you didn't have hurt because of her.” The girl nods, seemingly wise beyond her years. “But, because of her, you are here now, where you need to be, a part of a family that loves you very much. For that, my dear, I am very, very glad.”

Suraya dips her head with a blush, but chirps bashfully, “Me too.”

-/

Devrim stops in his tracks, halfway up the steps leading to his childhood home. They are back early, intending to purposely assuage their child's fears through demonstration. Beside him, his husband licks his lips. Both inhale the strong, nostalgic smell of Devrim’s mother’s famed sauce, of garlic and fresh basil and stewing tomatoes.

“She hasn't made sauce in years,” Marc marvels. “Probably not since right after we married. She'd said she’s too old.” He pauses. “You think Suraya conned her into it?”

“Our daughter? Doubtful. I'm sure she planned it all along. Mother’s protested for years that we’ve had no child for her to dote upon.”

“Yes, but you've seen our child pout. It's just like you.”

Devrim casts a scathing glance his husband's way. “I most certainly do not pout, Marcus.”

Marc rolls his eyes, “Strange, she said something similar last time I found her pouting. As for you,” He laughs, “You most certainly do.” He nudges Dev with an elbow before reaching for the door. “And don’t  _Marcus_  me, you’re doing it right now.”

Suraya has a splotch of sauce on her forehead, and is giggling as her Nana hums some long-lost song from Devrim’s childhood that plays from a radio nearby. She’s too focused on her task - they’re making bread to go with their supper - to turn to them when they come in the door. Devrim’s mother winks at Marc as the two watch him evaluate Suraya’s progress with kneading the stubborn loaf.

“Told you she’d be fine,” The Kay matriarch says. “I kept her busy. She should sleep well for you tonight.”

“And you?”

Her eyes crinkle around the edges as Suraya shows off what she’s learned to her other parent. “A little exhaustion is a small price to pay for such a wonderful gift.”

Marc puts an arm around her. “Thank you,” He says. “And you were right.”

She laughs. “Of course I am.” Across the room, Devrim dots Suraya’s nose in excess flour from the board she’s using to knead the dough. She squeals, and leaves a small handprint on the side of his face. The two sigh, though they can’t help but chuckle at the duo’s antics. She whispers to her son-in-law, “It’s been a long time since my house has felt so full.”


End file.
